


Shatterworld #1

by Ketch117



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Marvel (Comics), Wanted (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, But Slade has the worst, Canon-Typical Violence, Contradictory Accounts, Crossover, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Has Issues, Extensive referenced Family History, Fast and loose with the timeline, Humor is a defence mechanism, Lots and lots of references, Multiple Crossovers, No explicit slash - but plenty of subtext, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Superheroes, Time Travel, Violence, long conversations, self-destructive behaviour, so many issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:56:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 74,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16493042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketch117/pseuds/Ketch117
Summary: All Myths are true, somewhere.They say the world is always in peril, always on the brink of ending. But most people don't ever notice. Certainly not two partially-estranged brothers, who find themselves working together for the first time in a long time, on a road trip to try and take out a figure who looms large in both their lives. But maybe that's not important.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I've been sitting on this story for a long time now but I never posted it. Still, it's always been a lot of fun to work on. Bit of a heads up; I pull from all sorts of different sources for the characters in this fic, without worrying too much about continuity. Essentially, I conform to the idea of Hypertime.
> 
> For the sake of completion, I also reference (but would be dishonest to add to the crossover elements) 'Back to the Future', 'Looper' and 'The Nightlands' (a kind of precursor to cosmic horror) as well as 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy', and 'Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure'. At least, those are the obvious ones. This series is based on a freeform quest I ran ages ago, and though it's all written by me, a lot of other people contributed. But I wouldn't know how to get into contact with them, anymore.
> 
> A lot of references are likely going to go over a casual readers head. Well, think of it as a chance to try something new. Most of the characters and events referred to can be located via a quick google search.

**Later**

**The not so distant future…**

"Look, I know it's not a lot to work on, or with, but you lot are all I could find." Nathan Christopher Charles Summers Dayspring Askani'son said slowly, holding up his hands. He had lived in interesting times, and they had left their mark on him, his face was scarred, his eyes were tired, and he was beginning, finally, to look old. He was best known as Cable in most timelines, he even thought of himself by that name. He was dressed in his leather uniform, festooned with weapons and leaning on the the hood of the well-preserved and heavily modified silver DeLorean DMC-12.

How to convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the dark, empty, dying world that was his life now? The dark and sullen sky was no longer blue. Instead it was dark and cold as a night, stretching along until it reached the huge red-hot dome of the sun, bisected by the horizon, motionless and angry, which had come to obscure nearly a tenth part of the darkling heavens,,hung heavy with the ancient light of livid swollen stars. The city around was gutted ruins, cracked and decayed like broken teeth, the ocean had evaporated, and what light there was came from residual volcanic activity more than the sun. There was no sign of any life, bar Cable and his three companions. It wasn't so, some others survived, in great redoubts powered by the Life Current of the world, but the numbers were dwindling. Soon… well, it didn't bear thinking about.

Wolverine didn't share his philosophical view, he was firmly in the moment, his enhanced senses on full alert. Manhattan might have been quiet, but it's sidewalks were stained with old blood - and every so often the scent of a decaying corpse hit him. He tried not to look at the sky. The sun was a dull reminder that nothing could get better. The world was over, all that was left was the wait for it to become unable to support life.

Wolverine had expected an answer. Or at least a reaction. Given neither, he uncrossed his arms, and held them out, a little lamely. "So can you work with this? Because far as I can see, this is our only hope. Our only way to set things right."

"You two are the closest things to experts we have left, right?" Cable added. Wolverine sensed something unsaid in his cohort’s words and studied him. To anyone else, Cable's dour expression would have seemed no different from any of the other dour expressions he wore day in and day out; but the other mutant had been partnered with him for a long time in this desolate world trying to save it, and he could read moods in the man that others missed completely. Cable was all but burned out. Another set-back would probably kill him.

Hope was a hard thing to cling on to, in this world. And impossible to regain, once you lost it.

The man he addressed stared at him. He was a skinny, somewhat ungainly looking person, dressed in what had once been a blue suit and brown coat, with spiky hair and an expression of perpetual wonder on his face, the sort of man who is enthusiastic about every single subject, and who knows far more then anyone else, but can't express it as well as he'd like to. His eyes were deep and haunting, and seemed to contain all of forever. At last, coming to a conclusion, he crossed his arms and shook his head. "Talk me through this again."

"We need to travel through time. This is a time machine." Wolverine said, calmly. "I'd think it was obvious."

"Well…" Booster Gold started to say, but Valeyard interrupted him, stepping forward. 

"Great Rassilon, if only it were so simple." He stated. "But look at it. Time Machine? Hardly. It's a brute force approach joke. It's about as much use as trying to break through inter-dimensional walls as a sledgehammer."

"It can go back to the past."

"Which past? Time isn't like a river, or even a river that flows both ways simultaneously. It's a lot more complicated. Much, much more. The past isn't some fixed, stable construct. People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually — from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint — it's this wandering, meandering thing that just goes in all sorts of wibbly-wobbly directions."

Wolverine paused. His eyebrows wandered about his forehead in confusion. That was just maddeningly unhelpful. "I don't follow."

"Look, I do know how Time Travel works, thank you. I attended Preston and Logan university, class of 2688." Booster Gold interjected. Not that such a thing was likely to happen, what with the looming global extinction event and the techno-barbarians and scavengers tearing apart what was left of the world. But causality would take a while to catch up with his timeline. Give him enough time to fix this before he stopped existing. At least, that was the plan.

"On a football scholarship, sir." Skeets added helpfully.

"Well, yes. But that thing can go to the past and the future quite…"

The Valeyard sighed. "OK, I want you to understand that this is in pretty much every single way inaccurate, but it's dumbed down enough, and using small enough words that it should make sense. No offence intended, but if this was easy to explain, everyone would do it. Now, time is not like a river, but if it was it would be a river with a nearly infinite number of distributaries - alternate timelines -branching off in every direction. Now these alternate timelines tend to go off on their own and never intersect with the main timeline. On occasion, the branches return, feeding back into the main timeline - sometimes permanently, sometimes temporarily. Thus, history can sometimes change momentarily and then change back (or not)."

"So we can't change the past, because we already changed the past?" Wolverine asked, face falling. A terrible futility welled up inside him. He'd spent three years tracking this machine down in China. He'd seen nightmarish things, nearly died twice and lost some of the only friends he had left, who had survived this long like him. He'd had to kill the Rainmaker himself, and the man had begged him to do it. His claws began to slide through his knuckles, and he kicked the machine, then kicked it again, harder.

Cable grunted. "It's never happened that way for me before."

Booster Gold put a comforting hand on Wolverine's shoulder. "It's not like that. Keep listening to the man." There was almost nothing left of the man Wolverine had once known. Michael Carter's blond hair had faded to a uniform iron grey. However old he was - it was always hard to know with time travellers - he looked tinned out and used up. Gone was the familiar figure of limitless self-promotion, and in it's place was a man too stubborn to give up, tormented by his own helplessness.

The Valeyard was warming to his subject matter now. "I mean, in all honesty… well, we can do that. We can. Of course we can. But you're not just talking about moving from point A to point B. No fixed points, not so simple. And even if we can get to the right time and place, which I doubt, you're not just going there as a tourist. You want to muck around with causality, and that's not cut out for it. It's hard. Seriously, I have some experience in the subject. Normally you're better off simply forcing the world into whatever shape you imagine, and telling everyone that you changed the past. I mean, paradoxes notwithstanding, we are living in a pantheistically solipsist multiverse, where every single moment can be divided to a number mathematically interchangeable with infinity, where every thought and dream, decision and idea spouts a new possibility. That can take us back in time, but it doesn't offer any security, and the past is a general target, and it's the size of a pinhole in an infinitely refracting universe of possibilities, which we have no tools or even target to aim at whatsoever. Furthermore, changing the past only has an effect if you also change the present, else it just sort of slides into an alternate timeline, and even if you do somehow create a stable timeline, it has no more primacy then any of the other potential pasts…"

"OK, now I definitely don't understand." Wolverine grumbled. He'd caught maybe a third of that barrage of words, and while he got the gist (that they were trying to do something without the necessary tools) he felt that The Valeyard was failing to explain what exactly the dangers were.

"Potential pasts work the same way as potential futures. There's no definitives, it's all might have beens." Booster Gold said, with a shake of his head. "Nine times out of ten, the present just reaffirms itself anyway."

"NO!" The Valeyard protested. Then he thought about it for a moment. "Actually, yes." He said. "That's actually only mostly wrong… look, rewriting Time has consequences. Which wouldn't be a problem, or at least a big problem, if we had the right sort of instrument. But chronal energy has to come from somewhere – and it’s coming from the past and the future. The more you muck around, the more the past is steadily being eaten away, and the more the future will never be."

Wolverine unfolded his arms. Finally. Down to brass tacks. "What's the worst thing that could happen?"

The Valeyard rolled his eyes. "What, aside from the obvious? This thing hasn't any protection from making changes to the timeline. So assuming this thing does head back to the right place and doesn't implode into a quantum singularity that erases the entire universe, given that we haven't any temporal uncertainty compensator arrays there's no buffer between us and causality, we'd be lucky not to just erase ourselves simply by observing. And we so much as kick a pebble and then collapse into uncertainty limbo as the universe constantly morphicly reasserts itself, recreating and destroying us indefinitely as it tries to diverge our old and new existence."

Wolverine sucked on his teeth. "That is pretty bad." He allowed.

"Don't worry, it probably won't happen." Booster Gold reassured.

"Well sure. Because this stupid thing probably won't even get that far."

“Don’t give me that ‘we should just give up’ nonsense.” Booster Gold snapped. “You’re here, aren’t you? Not heading into the night lands and waiting for one of our new neighbours to gobble you up as a snack. You want to contribute, fine, but that defeatist attitude isn’t any good to anyone.”

“We probably only have one chance and this - we don’t have the resources for more, so we need to make the most of it we can, not just throw all to the wind at the first opportunity. That's just basic good sense.”

“And this is it. So we understand the risks." Wolverine said, still calm, perhaps infuriatingly so. "Now I got a question. Just one."

The Valeyard stared at him. "What?"

"What would Rose want you to do?"

For a moment, his eyes flashed, then he slumped, defeated. "Oh, to Timesend with it." He snarled, pulling something small and metallic out of his pocket. "Fine, let's roll the dice." He said against his best judgement though it was, then walked over to the car and popped the hood, his movements resigned and yet determined. In place of an engine was a glittering metallic framework, very delicately made. Parts were of nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of rock crystal. He sighed, and shook his head. "I can't believe how crude this is. I couldn't use this to build the tools to build the tools that I need to get a working model out of this. I mean, nuclear power? A time machine that runs on nuclear power?" He shook his head at the absurdity. "I suppose we're fortunate that it's not a hamster on a wheel. Anyone have a grade 19 temporal transfixer conduit? How about a tachyon counter-weaver?"

They stared at him.

"No?" He sighed. "Fine. I'll jury-rig something. But if this lands you all in the Jurassic, and you fail to avert this, then remember I warned you all."

A few hours had passed. The car looked much the same, to the untrained eye, but The Valeyard rubbed his hands. "Right. That's a start."

"So it'll work now?"

"Yes. No. Sorta. Look, it's a paradox machine. A very crude paradox machine. As long as we keep it running, it should stabilise existence enough that we can make changes. Small ones. Inconsequential ones. But small changes grow into larger ones. Now the window will be small, so you have to work quickly, and figure out what you want well in advance."

"So we couldn't change the past before, but now we can?"

"No. No we can't. Only Rassilon can do that sort of thing, and he's not here. Or anywhere. Or anywhen. At the moment. So we aren't. What we're doing, is fixing the timeline so we can use brute-force to push reality into the shape it would have taken if something had been different. What was done was still done, we just made it pretend it didn't hard enough that the universe doesn't bother arguing and just plays along."

"That's not really the same thing."

"Isn't it? Who's going to know?" The Valeyard asked, looking genuinely curious.

"Well… Good point."

"Of course, on it's own it isn't much use. See, we need to know what shape the universe should look to fix it. And to do that, we need some kind of device capable of calculating and measuring everything. Something capable of holding every single detail about the galaxy, since the machines not going to do it for us. And I have no idea how to get something like that."

Booster Gold smiled, and handed him a gadget. The Time Lord/human hybrid gasped, overwhelmed by the gadget. Indeed, the device looked so terrifically complicated that even the assembled intellectual might present felt somewhat intimidated and overwhelmed by it, which was why it was a tremendous relief to see it had 'Don't Panic' written in large, friendly letters on the front.

"That…" he breathed "that'll do nicely."


	2. Chapter 2

**Now**

New York - Scarab Corporation Office Block

September 17, 18:51 EDT

 

There were certain conveniences, he found, to this sort of setup. And he’d spent the last hour taking advantage of them. His hands were empty, but on one end of the table laid out on a silver tray was a series of barbed and serrated knives of varying lengths which he had recently put to their intended purpose quite satisfactorily. Quite a few of them were still sticky with blood and other fluids. At the other end of the table was a china plate, which had contained the remnants of the meal he’d just savoured, despite the poor condition of the meat (a lifetime of negligence will do that).

The selection of knives were all his own work - all hand-constructed out of flint, which had been the way he had first learned to craft his own tools (in a time when life had tended to be ugly, brutal and short), and he had kept that skill alive over his long life. Like many things about him, it was at least in part a practice of nostalgia. Much of the modern world was lost on him - he was enough the scientist to follow most advances in physics, rocketry, metallurgy and chemical warfare (though there was so much these days no man could follow everything), as well as subjects he took an interest in such as psychology, and military science as well. That said, entire changes of paradigm (for instance, social media) had changed the word while he wasn't looking, and he'd been unable to adapt to them. Then again, most modern humans wouldn't know how to drive chariots or hunt mammoths, so he supposed it balanced out in the end. The knives were as fine instruments as the most precise of surgical equipment for all their primitive manner of construction and composition - he'd gotten very good at crafting his blades over the years, and for all that there was no longer any need to make his own, he still did out of habit. Besides, it was so rare to find anyone willing to take the time to meet the exacting standards he required.

After all, he was civilised.

Vandal Savage was defined by his past, but lived in the moment. Prone as he was to careful introspection and reminiscence, frequently allowing himself to follow memories and carry trains of thought that he'd started centuries ago, it was hard not to acknowledge how much the sum of his past he was becoming, and he could scarcely define how long he had been alive. But even several hundred years into his endless life he realised that he had a choice. He could dedicate herself to remembering his past, every new day an exercise in keeping hundreds of years of memories alive, or he could look to the future, and instead set himself to achieving fresh challenges and discoveries. Never one to rest upon his laurels, he had opted for the latter.

Now, the ocean of his memories beyond the trickle that was his consciousness was beyond even his own comprehension. Pebble stacked upon pebble upon pebble. He could roughly trace the largest pebbles, but after so many years, everything in his foundation, in her earliest times, was nothing more then a outline which could only be traced through later memories, pieced together from later fragments. Searching for them was to be lost in the past, within his own head.

And despite himself, he preferred the present.

The meal had made him garrulous, and so he was on his feet and in his element, pacing in a predatory fashion and occasionally gesturing with his hands as he talked. A bloody napkin was in his left hand, where he had dabbed his lips clean. The man he addressed was seated in a chair. He was unrestrained, but had been so badly beaten it was difficult to imagine that he could have moved. His lips were swollen, his gums bled from teeth which had been torn out, one of his eye-sockets had caved in completely, and his right arm was broken in three places. The left side of his chest had been crushed, breaking ribs like match-sticks and puncturing a lung giving him a horrible deflated appearance. Blunt trauma had deformed his skull. His jaw was a shattered, completely out of alignment. And there was a precise cut across his midsection, done with a sharp knife and surgical precision, then stitched up neatly so as to do do no permanent damage. It seemed out of place, give that the rest of his body had been damaged with a brutal but calculated imprecision to ruin it entirely, but perhaps that was the point.

The tattered remnants of his costume still hung off him, where they hadn't been ripped away. It was enough, at least, to preserve modesty.

"Wesley Gibson. I knew your father." said Vandal Savage, sounding – as he always did – as if he was committing murder simply by speaking. He affected at once an air as if they were meeting the first time, along with an aspect of a disappointed parent educating a wayward child. Both were equally false - he had met Wesley a few times, though in a distant way, and he cared about him not in the slightest. In truth he was simply interested in recouping what he could from a failed investment - Wesley only mattered to him in terms of expended time. "Your father understood things you don't seem to have grasped, Wesley. His place in the scheme of things, for one. I won’t deny he was often difficult, but at least he would have had better sense than trying to kill me.”

Wesley was conscious, though barely. Vandal had been careful to keep him conscious - he didn’t want to waste the lesson. His breathing was shallow and rapid, to compensate for his damaged lung. His face was crusted with mucus and blood, which bubbled as he breathed through it with a rattling sound. There were tears in his eyes, tears of shame and terror and impotent rage. He smelled of piss.

It was a tremendous change from the Wesley of even a day before, a tight bound ball of aggression and unearned confidence, who had walked as though the world trembled at his every step. A man entirely unrecognisable to who he had been just a few months before that - then Wesley Gibson had been an insignificant wasted potential with a life he could barely endure, whose only avenue of escape had been in contemplating suicide. That man had possessed no obvious self-respect, no courage to stand-up for himself, and had let everyone treat him appallingly largely because he was terrified of being alone. He had a girlfriend who was cheating on him with his best friend and a boring, dead-end job working for a boss he hated who hated him right back.

It would have been easy for him to be overlooked, and to have been left to spend a life achieving nothing. But he possessed a very specific genetic combination of value to Vandal's interests. And so he had been found, recruited, and trained by low-level operatives within the Illuminati on behalf of Savage, after they confirmed he was a carrier of a very specific meta-gene. They had honed the talents he'd inherited over a period of months to make him into an assassin, teaching him to fight, to take a beating, to kill.

Then they'd given him a mission and set him loose, and Wesley had demonstrated a hitherto undemonstrated wayward streak. He had either forgotten or ignored his appointed purpose and resolved to get even from his perceived victimisation by his immediate society. He went on a rampage, killing everyone connected to his old life in a brutal manner, then when he ran out of acquaintances had simply targeted anyone he could think of. He had believed that he could kill, rape, mutilate and steal anything or anyone he wanted without any consequences, thanks to an over-inflated image of himself and his capabilities. It was a fairly common psyche to find in extreme personalities in the metahuman community.

But, one way or another, they all learned better.

Vandal clasped his enormous hands behind his back and gave Wesley a rawly calculating look, weighing 'The Killer II' in the balance. The first killer had been an assassin built by the Ultra-Humanite.

Vandal spoke, to fill up the silence more then anything. But despite his tone, there was no genuine regret in his words. “To think. I offered you so much, and this is how you repay me? I was convinced you had potential, Wesley. That I saw something in you worth nurturing, worth improving. Something that would one day make you worthy of admiration.“ Vandal said. "To think I trusted you. Do you think me made of stone? Do you think I am untouched by your betrayal?" He sighed. "But only a poor craftsman blames his tools. The truth is, I failed you." He began his pacing once more, though his eyes never left his wayward asset. "The truth is, I taught you your talents, I honed your body, but I left your mind the same fragile and snivelling weakling you had let yourself become. You used your powers to assert yourself over lesser men without the blessings you have received. You tortured those who you knew would break. You fled those you knew to be your equal. You proved yourself a craven." He took a deep sniff. It sounded like a bull snorting. Vandal was such an over-powering presence, his every action seemed larger then life.

Wesley felt himself wither. Not at the immortal's low regard, but because he feared Savage picking up where he left off. Savage had a way of making him feel particularly helpless. "I saw your actions, what world you desired to build yourself. And I knew, that it was as far as you dare dream. I had shown you some glimpse of my grand design, let you envision what was coming, what I shall achieve, and you sought to hide away from a war that would extinguish the gods themselves, because all you can imagine, all you dare dream, is a tiny corner of it full of cheap wine and expensive prostitutes," He shook his head, looking disappointed. Then he sighed, a touch theatrically. "What an age, when a man of your capabilities has no further aspirations than to become a petty gangster.”

"Your failure is perhaps forgivable, but mine? My only excuse is that I wanted what I thought you could give me too much to consider matters impartially. I have proved myself infinitely patient, time being a thing I have no shortage of, and yet I failed to take the time to do a thorough job. You see, I have dreams of my own. Bigger than yours, of course. Bigger than you have shown yourself able to comprehend. But you could have been a part of that, a part of those dreams, Wesley, if you weren't too scared to dream of more then your own life. If you could but show a little foresight, you could see the world as I do."

"So what should I do with you? I used to enjoy slow deaths, but now I just find them boring. I think perhaps I should start again, simply cut you loose, and yet perhaps I am still too invested. What do you think, Wesley?"

"…Kill me." Wesley forced out, his voice a hoarse wreck from all the screaming he'd been doing a minute ago. The words slurred and difficult to discern through what was left of his jaw. The tears in his eyes now fell down his cheeks, cutting through the crusted blood of his skin, and lined in his face was a look of heart-breaking terror. "Just… just kill me."

Vandal paused, then laid a gentle hand on his cheek. "Pray, repeat yourself. What should I do?"

"Kill me. Just… I can't… a nobody… please. Just kill me."

Vandal reached down, and rested his hand almost gently on Wesley's cheek again, giving it a soft pat. "You follow your treachery with a plea for mercy. Be grateful then that you are not entirely useless."

He took his hand away, and replaced it, clasped behind his back, keeping him ram-rod straight. "I am sentimental. I still do not desire you dead, so I shall let you redeem yourself. Perhaps. I’ll let you recover a bit, you’re no good to anyone like that. But, when you are getting healthy and strong again, keep what you are feeling now in mind, because your situation hasn’t changed."

He paused. “So learn from this, Wesley. Learn the realities of your situation, because I am only lenient once, and seldom even that much. So don't make me doubt you again, or I'll make you watch next time, when I eat your other kidney."

A door opened behind him, admitting two colourful looking men into the room. Vandal turned smoothly, and inclined his head. Wesley didn't react. He had finally drifted away into unconsciousness.

"I apologise for the mess." Vandal said, sweeping a large hand across his sanctum. The mess in question was tightly contained to a out of the way corner. "Thank you for making the time to see me." Vandal added, turning to stare at the two men who had just been ushered in.

"Don't be. It's educational." Slade replied. "And that off-brand Traders-Rasputin gentleman you dispatched to find us made a very tempting offer." Underneath Deathstroke's outfit was a single eyed man named Slade Wilson. He was as good as he could be when he had enlisted, the child of a broken home, another young idealist who wanted to grow up to be Captain America. That hadn't happened. He'd enlisted and become a green beret, a commando who had gone from non-commissioned officer to lieutenant, proving exceptional, and had survived multiple tours of duty in some truly god-awful hellholes across the world in conflicts that never made even the back pages of the news, not merely getting by but actually managing to thrive. He'd been an obvious choice to be selected for 'Project Rebirth: Weapon X'. He'd been designated 'Subject Delta', the first to go through the process and the intended leader of the team, after being subjected to what amounted to little more then high-tech butchery.

It had begun with a week restrained as numerous synthetic hormones and anti-rejection drugs, artificial proteins and bonding agents were pumped into his bloodstream, rebuilding his muscle structure with high-performance steroids and altering his metabolism to make him more efficient. Then had followed a week of microsurgery and brain-surgery as they pumped a series of accelerants into his cerebral cortex and adjusted his grey matter with artificial tissues, then had gotten to work on his fine-motor skills and senses, making him better still. His body had wavered, nearly rejecting the treatments a number of times, but had eventually stabilised, giving him superhuman strength, reflexes and capabilities, uncanny senses as well as making his mind far more efficient in terms of processing power. But it could hardly be called a success. Somewhere along the process, Slade had lost whatever idealism he had possessed, and had broken out, killed anyone who got in his way and put his new skills to work for himself. The US had lost a invaluable deniable asset, Slade Wilson was one of the best assassins in the world. Guns, swords, poisons, it didn’t matter how you wanted someone killed, Deathstroke the Terminator could do it. But somewhere along the line, he'd become addicted to killing. He worked better alone, less entanglements and opportunity to be compromised. However, this time was an exception at the employers request.

"He's not mine. He's an interpreter for a… colleague, and an advisor of matters spiritual."

"You've joined a cult? It'll be self-help books and taking up gardening next." The other man interjected. He wasn’t quite as muscular as his older brother, or as light on his feet and controlled in his movements, or even as purposeful, but in a strange but very definite way he gave the impression of being just as dangerous, perhaps even more. "Anyway, nothing has been decided yet."

He was was wearing black and red bodysuit that covered his whole body - ladybug pyjamas, as he called them. A matched pair of katanas were strapped securely to his back as part of a modified special forces harness, and a holster on each hip. His name was Wade Wilson, or if you preferred, Deadpool. Wade Wilson was an efficient, deadly, and crazy mercenary for hire. He was once worked for the military in special forces and covert ops until he was diagnosed with terminal cancer from a lifetime of smoking. Angry and distraught over his impeding death, he began to lash out and caused several incidents before he was dishonourably discharged. He'd worked as a thug for hire for a while, a job he was very over-qualified for, and continued the slow process of dying. Eventually he'd volunteered for Weapon X, he was the infused with the healing factor of a patient that he only knew as Weapon X, which had resulted in him being horribly disfigured and mentally unstable.

When the program had shut down, he'd put his new skills to good use.

Unlike his brother, who was largely professional, Deadpool looked almost petulant. A pout was hidden behind a layer of black and red cloth, as he tried to figure out why he was feeling slightly at a loss, wondering what he was doing there. There was just something… different. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but existence in general just felt slightly off. He didn't like that. It was hard enough dealing with the deeper existential problems of trying to function as a coherent consciousness in a epistemologically ambiguous universe dictated by the whims of narrative structure.

"For one thing, I've got a few questions. First up, do you interview all prospective employees with the broken remains of their predecessors on display like this? Because it's really more polite to just fill a room with schmucks for us to beat up. We get to establish ourselves as badasses, and feel good about ourselves, rather then get all scared of what you might do to us, and wonder if taking this job is going to be detrimental to our health and well-being." Deadpool rattled off, as he stared around the scene. "Anyway, I prefer to be referred to as a cleaner of the gene pool, and if we're putting together a team, which we should because team-ups sell comics, I think it's about time we got an art-shift and a new look. I even have a few schematics for new uniforms for everyone to wear since A-list characters can’t last a panel without a wardrobe change, which I'd like you to take a look at." Wade continued, then held up some old newspaper scraps. "I designed them myself one rainy afternoon. In crayon." He shrugged. "Hey, inspiration strikes sudden and fast, and if you look at them I believe you'll find my genius speaks for itself. I've been carrying them around for six years, waiting for an opportunity like this."

His heart wasn't really in the banter. He was still a little lost and confused by the situation he'd found himself in, spatially speaking. "By the way, you don't know what issue I'm in, do you? I seem to have lost track. I mean, I guess I might be making a cameo in yours, but I feel that's not the case, somehow."

Savage raised an eyebrow, then decided he didn't want to ask. He'd never worked with Deadpool before, and so was little taken aback at his... unique way of going about things. "Such a thing could be arranged, perhaps." He allowed at last, when Wade had finally shut up. He very carefully didn’t specify which exactly of the suggestions he was agreeing to. "But I see no reason to utilise more then the two for the task I have in mind." He paused. "Unless you believe yourselves inadequate?"

"I'm not cleaning your swimming pool. Don't have the skill-set to clean that sort of pool. Money is no object at all, even for a man with no pride." Deadpool replied without thinking and having entirely ignored the immortal's question, still looking around the room. If he stared long enough, concentrating on a different vantage point from the norm, especially while ignoring whatever occupied the foreground and occupying anybody else, he could usually recognise the boundaries of panels, see his yellow inner monologue boxes…

Nothing. He tapped the corner of his head a few times. Beginning inner monologue: In the immortal words of Rorschach, who I will find a way to co-star with someday in what will be the greatest trade-paperback of all time, Hurm. This medium has become corrupt. Decadent. Liberal. Confused. Everything in italics, no yellow background, betraying all it once stood for. Cowardly and superstitious lot. Comic Sans MS font missing, something something gutters overflowing something something something dark side. Possibly the fault of editorial change. Must investigate further.

Huh. "Hey, do you think they're experimenting and not doing panels right now? Ooh! I know, maybe this is a full page sort of thing? But that wouldn't explain all the… Maybe this is a movie! I thought it had already came out, and you'd think I'd know. Well, one things for sure, I know I'm not Green Lantern under this mask. Maybe…"

"Shut up." Slade growled, a little embarrassed by his brothers relentless babbling. He was approaching the point where it was necessary to rein his brother in, which unfortunately meant sinking to his level. He wasn't looking forward to it.

"I'm in the middle of a mystery here, attempting to classify the medium I've found myself in, and thereby set the limits of the possible! It is the most important question anyone can ask, except of course 'will I get paid for this?'. Which is why I'm not doing anything until the big homicidal immortal gentleman asks me to. He's the one cutting the checks."

"Silence." Savage said, bemused by what was rapidly becoming a farce. Savage was used to a higher standard of professionalism - or, to be cruelly accurate, a lot more begging and fear.

"Not until I see some money." A terrible thought struck Deadpool, that made him forget all about his attempts to comprehend his universe, as was par the course for him. He'd get worked up about something, and before he knew it he would be distracted and forget what he had originally been doing in the first place. "Wait. Wait wait wait. Wait. This isn't one of those 'honour to serve you' things, is it? Because my doctor tells me I have a natural deficiency in moral fibre, my power of friendship levels are dangerously low, and that I am in desperate need of a spine transplant, making me therefore exempt from offering my life for the cause. Unless I get a badge, and a big statue of me looking all noble and heroic, a clever caption underneath, and a trade paperback written by Mark Millar co-staring Rorschach."

Vandal Savage laughed. He’d actually followed most of that. ”Don’t be concerned. You serve a greater cause, but will not be expected to do so without profit to yourselves. Any asking price, with clean money that isn't traceable. Nothing that a pair of professionals with your talents cannot handle." He gave a smile that was cold and threatening. "Which is doubtless reward enough."

"We are? That doesn't mean you're going to pay me in baseball cards, does it? I mean, you must have lived through all the periods where getting them was as cheap as…"

Savage blinked. That was a new one. "Would you like me to?" 

"Yes. I mean no. I mean... I don't even know what I'm saying! Or why I'm here, or why it all makes so much sense! Damnit, stop confusing me! You're the most infuriating man I've ever met!"

Savage paused, regaining his centre and trying to suppress the swell of anger in his chest. Unable to speak without shouting, he did the only thing he could think of to move the conversation on, and back into the direction he'd envisioned. He pressed a button on the remote in his hand, and let what it did speak for itself.

A light came on in another section of the room, revealing a table covered with all a manner of the latest of weapons innovations, ranging from small gadgets that could double as surgical instruments to guns the size of your leg that looked as though they might be able to liquify an entire mountain. Some Stark equipment fleshed it out for good measure, as well as Wayne Enterprises communications and other, less immediately identifiable brands. Destro-Tech. Hammer-Tech. Kord-Tech. Lexcorp, all the big names in research and development technology. Even some wild-cards made by Ezekiel Stane, and yes, could it be? Reed Richards! With all this, you could fight a large war against anyone you wanted.

"Heavens to Betsy!" Deadpool skipped over like a giddy school girl and picked up one of the shiny - oh so shiny - weapons. His eyes shone with something like avarice… no lets be clear. Avarice was exactly what it was. He couldn't help it. He squealed happily, then coughed. "I did that out loud, didn't I? That was meant to be an internal thing…”

Savage took a deep breath, then decided that no, in point of fact, he'd had enough, and let out a rumble, the rumble of a bear that does not start fights but certainly finishes them when it's provoked. It was a rumble that seemed to bypass the two mens conscious minds and go right for their instinct - which was telling them to run. Wesley Gibson, lolling in his chair and largely forgotten, let out a small, animal sound. “That shall do." Savage said quietly before trailing off meaningfully, the tone of his voice now illustrating more eloquently then any number of words that he wasn't going to raise his voice, because if it came to that it was all over for both of them. He was getting sick of putting up with this, and when Savage got that way, entire bloodlines, races and tribes were wiped from humanity, extinct unto the eighth generation.

"Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. It would really be a shame if I didn't have anyone to use all this shiny weaponry on." Deadpool said, stepping away from the predatory gleam in his brothers eye like it was what he wanted to do all along and stroking it all with his fingertips (but not actually picking any of it up).

Savage turned and began pacing again. Holding up the same remote, he pressed a button, activating the screens behind him. One showed a facility they were both very familiar with in the wilds of Canada. Time and nature were in the process of reclaiming it, the wind had eroded most of the paint off the buildings and ripped off anything that wasn't bolted in place, and the stone was beginning to crumble while the iron rusted. Time had not been kind to that facility. The photo was taken from above by virtue of a satellite, and the day was fairly clear so the picture was good.

"Oh look, the uninitiated can get my backstory! Who did you cast as me?"

The next slide showed an estate referred to as Xavier's institute for the gifted. That was shielded, but Savage must have had ways of getting around anything.

Deadpool whistled, his quip about the fact that the remote only seemed to have one button that did everything dying on his lips. "We're going back to high-school again?"

"You might say that."

"Here I come 21 Jump Street!"

"Would you cut that out?" Slade asked his brother, rolling his eye in exasperation. That was his little brothers effect. Even the most serious and stoic of people will begin to act like morons in his presence. He was immune himself (or so he thought, though his brother was the only person he bantered with, or indeed held a conversation with), but that only made it worse. Because he had to put up with him all the time. “Mutants, Savage? Is that what this is about?”

“Broadly, yes. You are both aware of the ongoing social experiment that Charles Xavier began?"

"Of course. Intimately." Deadpool gave a wink that would never have been allowed in a family film.

"Shut up."

"Hey, if I had a buck for every time somebody said that, I wouldn't need this job." He paused. "Of course, I'd still probably do it."

"Pay attention." Savage warned.

"Of course Mr Savage." Slade said. He didn't quite snap off a salute, but he did regain his professional demeanour.

The next shot was of some fifty people in white and black uniforms, cut for function in the variety of hostile situations they inevitably found themselves in. It had been taken some ten years ago, and almost all of them were in their mid-to-late teens. They were mostly smiling as well, bar a few moody little tykes. In the middle and at the front was an elderly bald man in a wheelchair, Charles Xavier, the teams founder, leader, and many more things.

"I am sure you recognise them. The X-Men are an ongoing experiment, the most visible part of Charles Xavier's ongoing work in attempting to promote Mutant rights by putting together a team and advocating paramilitary behaviour as activists for social change, while pushing an ideology of coexistence." Savage said, warming to his subject, and not bothering to express his naked contempt of the whole approach. "This is the first line-up, though there has gone on to be countless variations as the roster shifts." He smiled. "Some die, others moved back into society and stopped declaring themselves to be dangerously independent, others go missing, or are radicalised by opposing ideologies. Long term progress is never meaningfully achieved, any support they generate is soft enough that even minor setbacks are enough to turn the populace against them. "

"Yeah, they're not very good at that, when all's said." Deadpool agreed. "Maybe it's because civil rights works best as a social movement, rather then a cult of personality."

"How perceptive." Savage agreed, surprised despite himself that Deadpool had something useful to contribute. "As you are probably informed, the X-Men number in the hundreds, although rarely more then a score or so serve as active participants on call, as well as a few splinter groups who insist on being referred to by variations of the name. Currently, one Scott Summers leads the majority from the mansion I showed earlier, which is now his property - despite Charles Xavier apparently being alive again. But regardless, even those who have gone on to lead lives reabsorbed into the world as a whole continue to uphold the legacy of their teacher's work in their own, private ways, going on to become members of international organisations of social reformers who make use of their talents, or joining the Brotherhood under Magnetto." He sneered. "All very touching, I'm sure. At least he is enough a student of history to realise mankind only acknowledges the strong."

"Is there a job in there somewhere?" Slade asked, a big hand clasped over his brothers mouth tight enough to dislocate his jaw if he twitched it to keep Wade from speaking, while Deadpool danced around trying to force the words out through sheer force of will.

“I have a number of targets in mind. However, the first of them - the man I want you to kill - is James Howlett, commonly known as Logan, or if you prefer, Wolverine. Hence you, Deadpool, it's my understanding that the two of you have met several times, and I assume you to be passingly familiar with his habits, capabilities, and the strategies most likely to find success against him. I've had my attention on him in general, and those he is connected to, for a while now. The man himself doesn't interest me, just one more dead-end on the route to mankind future, but he is well connected amongst the mutant army Charles Xavier built, and consistently identified by leading intelligence agencies as one of the worlds most dangerous men.” He smiled at that. "An exaggeration. Regardless, find him, restrain him, and make him a non-issue, by killing him would be best, but if that isn't reasonably practical find me a workable alternative and apply it. Once you do, there are some further dozen of influence who might become a problem. But once they are dealt with, the remainder should congregate to the mansion."

"When they have, you are to return, and lead an attack on the mansion, taking as many of them into custody as possible. Charles Xavier's legacy is an army of proto-humans. I want to put them to use, how shouldn’t matter to you.” Savage says, than hands the two brothers each a check. A blank check, already signed. The name on the line was not Vandal Savage. “Once you have done that, take them to a secure location and contact me, and my men will deal with the rest. You do that, and you can fill in any number you like up there. And I will see that you get it, even if I have to close every bank in europe to do so."

For a moment, silence. Then Slade smiled a predatory smile, had a little shiver, then lowered his head. A different man looked up, took the check, and scrunched it up into a ball then threw it over his shoulder. "Upon consideration, mister Savage I'm willing to waive my usual fee. Let's settle for pro bono, compliments of the establishment, and you can just settle the expenses upon completion." With that he took Deadpool’s check, and scrunched it up to.

It was so unexpected a response that the room went silent, both of them staring at him in slack-jawed amazement. They couldn't have been more amazed if Galactus had burst in, dancing the cancan and juggling key lime pies.

"Brother, what are you doing?" Deadpool managed to choke out. "Undermining me like this in front of the prospective client?" He rounded on Slade, now well on his way to being outraged. "We have this dynamic worked out already, and I do not appreciate you deviating from the established script! I'm the whimsical, lovably psychotic, crazy one! Me! You're the stoic, serious, gets the job done one! You're just going to confuse readers! We are the fighting, dancing, singing Wilson brothers! We do not do charity work! Why are you making us work for free? All that money..." His voice trailed off, as he considered all the possibilities that sort of money could bring. What couldn't he do with that sort of money? Then he started to consider what he could do. It was a much, much longer and more detailed list.

"Wade, this is a matter of honour." Slade replied, his voice low and containing deep satisfaction, folding his arms across his chest. "We do not cheapen that."

"What honour would that be? Weapon X was ages ago, you want a fight do it in your own time like everyone else. Right now, papa wants a new flatscreen television, and a trip to the Bahamas." He replied, himself in a role he rarely played, that of the voice of reason. "I'm not going to work for free. I do that enough already with Cable."

"Shall we say two weeks to deal with the primary target, and a further month to deal with the secondary objectives. And ten thousand for every additional mutant we deal with." He said to Savage as if Deadpool hadn’t opened his mouth.

"I have no objections at all." Savage said, eyes narrowing. Maybe he had misjudged this killer. While he usually preferred to work with those he had figured, and wasn't liking this new side of Deathstroke, honour was something he could understand. Slade as a mercenary was a controlled condition, Slade with is own agenda...

Well, he was a professional, and rarely failed. "Pleasure doing business with you."

"Good. Then I'll kill your animal for you. Brother? We're going."

They left, Deadpool still whining, but making no move to open up negotiations on his own behalf.

Vandal Savage remained a moment, deep in thought. Then he turned, and walked over to the still unconscious body Wesley Gibson. Reaching past his knives, he picked up the same remote he'd used earlier, and pressed the same button once again. The screens lit up once more, this time each focused directly onto a number of faces. He would always be thankful for the invention of the webcam. "Luthor." He said, nodding to the first screen, respect in his voice. "Ra's Ah Ghul. Doctor Doom." Three of the nine members of Luthor's little alliance. More then he'd expected, for what amounted to little more then a sideshow and a job interview in their ongoing aims.

"Savage. You look in excellent form." Came the dry, slightly accented sound of the Demon's Head. "How was your repast?"

"It sufficed, thank you. I dipped into my dwindling supply of Napoleonic brandy, which did much to make up for what was otherwise a merely passable meal." Savage replied politely. He didn't go into further detail, and none of them asked him to. "Following your recommendations, Luthor, I brought in two out-of-house specialists, and gave them their targets. They agreed."

"And you are satisfied to leave this in their capable hands, then?" The Captain of Industry asked.

"Largely, though I am somewhat disquieted."

"By Deadpool? He has that effect on most…"

"By Deathstroke." Savage said. Luthor scowled, before smoothing his features again into a mask of benign ambivalence, but Savage had caught it. Nobody interrupted Lex Luthor. "He's not himself. Acting impulsively, offering his services free of charge, pursuing a personal vendetta, it is all distinctive of something far more complicated than simple assassination. He clearly has his own motives." Vandal Savage clarified.

"DOOM anticipates such things in minions." Came the habitual bombastic delivery, a deep, electronically amplified voice that shook the scenery. "And DOOM has found that they make little difference. DOOM needs the best, and all the talent that we can get. They represent that. As long as he doesn't double-cross us, DOOM does not foresee any complication in having him work under us." He didn't talk in the third person all the time, just enough to remind people who he was, should they somehow forget. “And this mercenary has little to gain by double-crossing us.”

"It isn't as though we're allowing him any insight into our inner circle. That would be foolish." That was Ra's, ever the voice of caution. Ra's was a firm believer in stacking the deck as much as possible, he preferred a rigged game.

"He provides talent and anonymity on our part. A powerful combination. I didn't reveal any details, of course, although I have a feeling that he knew more about us than he was letting on. I simply hinted at future assignments. We have the League of Shadows for our more hands-on work, but the more variety to confuse those who would oppose us, the better." Savage replied. "Still, we cannot rely upon him."

Luthor laughed briefly. "Who can we trust,? How can any of our agents share our motives, considering how few are even aware of the… size of the organisation they're working for? They want money, they want power, and we'll give it to them as long as they give results and keep their mouths shut."

"Even so… I do understand the benefits of this venture. A test run of sorts will be helpful to assure that our true project goes smoothly, and the resulting distraction can let us advance our other operations… but, if or when it fails, those set up to be our opponents may grow wise, and we will lose the element of surprise."

"Then if it pleases you to do so, do not be content with just one specialist. Send in a few more. Supervise the action yourself, if you wish. But get it done."

"Have no fear on that count. Any of you." Vandal promised. "One way or another, it will be done."


	3. Chapter 3

There was a lot about his brother Deadpool didn’t know. He never would have guessed that he had invested in New York property, certainly not a huge townhouse a few hairs shy of being a mansion in a gated neighbourhood, the kind of place where nobody knew their neighbours and had never even heard the word 'community' or at least applied it to themselves, a far larger building then two people really needed. He always lived in a rotating series of safe-houses scattered around the country.

The place felt vast and echoing, like a cavity waiting to be filled. It was tastefully decorated, there were none of the giant, gold-framed mirrors or incomprehensible expressionist paintings that only the most affluent trendy can buy (Slade didn't have a head for art anyway - he knew what he liked, and it was landscapes), but all of the original seventeenth and eighteenth century furniture was still there. It looked a lot like people who buy imitation furniture wanted their houses to look - though it was real it was so lifeless it might have been fake.

Slade never even touched it. To him, the comfort was irrelevant, and the whole place was just window dressing. He actually lived in a bunker underneath, where he stored his armaments and reconnaissance information for his jobs, and only came up to sleep, eat, and leave.

The ceiling was two stories high, and a wide, grand staircase with an ornate metal railing swept up to the second floor, where a straight-backed, dignified gentleman, with fierce whiskers and eyes that remained piercing. Like the two brothers Wilson, he has a face of contrasts and visual reminders of the life it's lived. It might have been pretty once, but now it was littered with thin scars and jowls just beginning to sag. William Randolph Wintergreen had been in the SAS for two decades, and the best man at his masters wedding, and now served as Slade's right hand man, moral conscience, comrade in arms, butler and housekeeper.

Deadpool ran up the stairs three at a time and embraced him in a hug that the gentleman in question found extremely uncomfortable, not to mention unbecoming. "Wintergreen! How I have missed you! My place just isn't the same without someone to pick up pizza boxes and soda cans. You have no idea, because whenever you see them you pick them up, but in your absence they really start to pile up after a while. Hey, maybe you could come over and do something about it." He nudged him in the ribs, and then gave him a big, cheesy wink.

"You could pick them up yourself." Slade pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. He got territorial where Wintergreen was concerned.

"Yeah, but that's kinda what Wintergreen is for."

"Regretfully, master Wade, my work for your brother is somewhat full time. I haven't the time for a life of my own, never mind the time to assist you in yours."

"Well I'm not saying you should drop everything, just that you should be a bit more considerate." Deadpool says, impervious to sarcasm, then skipped back down the stairs. "Twice a week should be more then enough. Just make sure you don't come on saturday. I 'entertain' 'company' on saturday." He nudged his brother in the ribs this time. "If you 'know' what I 'mean'."

Wintergreen had satisfied the expectations of politeness, and was not about to engage any further.

"It's cool that you have a butler."

"He's not a butler. Butlers manage households. He's a valet."

"I know, I too am a fan of Downtun Abbey. And I think the technical term is slave, since you don't pay him."

"Actually, I do. As well as keep him safe. With what he knows, the SAS would kill him if they knew he was still alive."

"And this is your idea of friendship? You can't put a price on it."

The two of them didn't actually work together all that often. Slade was at his most deadly alone (or so he always claimed), and Deadpool took the sort of jobs he felt were beneath his dignity, which was why he'd run into some financial difficulties in the last while. I mean, all that stuff costs money, and as he was fond of complaining, he's gotten paid exactly twice since his 2012 books, whatever the hell that means. More to the point, Deadpool was an unpredictable loose cannon with several cannons of his own, and Slade was a control freak who was obsessed with precision, and had no problem working for people most of their community were terrified of.

Of course, Slade Wilson - despite having no actual morals, or even standards - did have a kind of honour - but it was honour of the most blatant sort, less a sense of fair-play, and more a gentlemen's code of elastic convenience in order to keep the power in the hands it was, and cut everyone else out. Still, it was a personal moral code he remained true to no matter how good the money was even if it was such a self-futhiling, hollowly specific morality that most wouldn't be able make sense of where the lines were drawn.

1.) Family first. Not just blood, family (though Wade Defarge was the acknowledged exception, the unofficial rule being they all hated him and he hated all them). You never sided against the family, you never sold them out, or took jobs against them, and no matter what they did you kept offering them as many second chances as they needed. Also, if they needed help you gave it to them. His own very unhappy childhood had made doing better one of his priorities, and for that much he could always be relied on. You didn't have to like it, or accept it, but Deathstroke would always do his best if you were family, no matter how much you hated him.

2.) Never involve innocent bystanders. Of course, they were only bystanders if they were unconnected to the victim. Family, friends, colleagues and the like were acceptable, even if they were completely defenceless. But unconnected collateral damage was unprofessional. And try to keep the destruction of property to a minimum as well, though that rule could be safely ignored if the circumstances warranted it. Explosions, for instance, weren't particularly controllable, but were a good way to start getting the job done.

3.) Don't kill people you are not being paid for. He'd done that a few times, but the world was full of people who made him want to kill them, and he didn't have time to deal with them all. Deathstroke was in it for the money, a job was a job, no need to let it get personal.

4.) If you didn't want to do the job, you made it too expensive for anyone to afford. He had no interest in committing suicide. If you wanted a job, then you lowered the price. But once you took it, if it was beyond your abilities (and such a thing was far from common), you apologised and paid your client back. Of course, if your client died before you did it, you had no obligation to continue unless their next of kin kept the money rolling in, and if they failed to pay you then you had an obligation to make them suffer.

5.) The rules have to be broken sometimes. Fine. But don't make a habit of it.

"So what does Wintergreen do when he's not with you? I always figured he went into a kind of hibernation, or just ceases to exist whenever you're not watching him."

"He respects my privacy. I grant him the same courtesy." Slade replied. "He does travel a lot, I've picked that much up."

"Wait, you don't know?"

"Why would I?"

“Aside from the fact he’s part of your supporting cast, you mean?” Deadpool shrugged.

"Well, I know he enjoys golfing."

“Fair enough. So can I... No wait, that's just the cancer repeatedly spreading into my brain then instantly healing talking."

"No you can't."

“Really? Just going to deny? You don't even know what I was going to say."

"You're right. I don't." Slade sounded happy about that.

"I'm going to ask anyway. What was that about, or am I going to guess?"

"You mean the money? It should come to half a million once we capture them all. You can have my cut, that should be more then enough. Personally, I've been waiting a long time for someone to make this offer."

"Half a million is cheap for this sort of work and you know it, particularly when we could have gotten that much cubed, and attacking the mansion with two people is suicide any way you call it. And I still don't get why you didn't just hunt him down and kill him in your own time. Or why you want to kill mutants. What are you, a racist?"

Slade's eye narrowed. "My son is a mutant."

"The one that's not dead?"

Slade's hand went to his knife. "Yes."

"Why then? If you want to kill Wolverine for free, why wait until someone asked you to?"

"I'm not a mad gunman, I am a professional. And a professional might give away his services for free on occasion, but he doesn't let things get personal." Slade replied. For him, that was a deep and searching look at his innermost motivations. "As for the mansion, who said we'd be alone? I intend to have a hundred former special forces with big guns at out backs, laying down suppressing fire."

"Oh sure, I'd love to play soldiers again, that's why I escaped to go into business myself. Anyway, this is personal! You said it yourself! Matter of honour, I heard you say it, don't think I didn't. Wait, that first thing. What's the difference?"

"One's an occupation with a noble and glorious history, the others a mental health issue that'll get you locked up in Arkham."

"Huh. Knew there was a difference. You know, they wanted to lock me up in there once."

"Yes I do. I broke you out, as I remember."

“And got your ass kicked by Batman.”

“That time, yes.” Slade agreed. “But I got you out.” Slade stretched his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles and headed to the back room, where a staircase led down to the basement. Slade was old-school, and had converted that into his bunker and headquarters. "I'm going bellow to keep in practice. I've called my contacts, they'll soon have a location for us."

"When did you do that? Off panel?"

"In transit. Try to keep up."

"Off-panel, just say so."

"We'll leave tomorrow. Keep yourself entertained in the meantime, don't let anyone know you're here and don't do anything I wouldn't do." He paused a moment. "And keep out of my liquor cabinet.”

Deadpool didn't stir until he was out of the room, then he rewinded through the conversation. "Dammit, he avoided my question. Well played sir, but you haven't beaten me yet. This calls for a devious and subtle plan of attack..."

 

* * * * *

 

There were only so many things you could do to amuse yourself in an empty house, even mansion. You could eat, you could watch television, you could break things, but it wasn't enough. Sooner or later, you needed someone to pay attention to you.

He pressed his hand against a matt black screen at the bottom of the stairs, and a light flashed green. Blast doors opened with a hiss in response, and he stepped into Slade's bunker.

The place was stark and spartan the way Slade liked it, just scuffed bare metal and rivets, exposed wires, a few dim lightbulbs, and a wire screen cage where one could train. The stink of perspiration and ozone was heavy in the air. From within the cage, there came a high-pitched squeal of discharging energy as a training-bot was dispatched.

Slade moved with a subtle blend of power and grace, always steps ahead of his artificial opponents, his moves plotted and figured out well in advance. Every strike flowed into another parry or blow, his every thrust precise and deadly. He displayed an astounding economy of movement, with no unnecessary flourish or extravagance yet undeniable skill. He was stripped to the waist, his lean, muscular body was flushed with perspiration, where it wasn't puckered with old scars. Slade had a healing factor, they'd built him to last afterall, but it was a crude, slow and cumbersome one that was achieved by speeding up his metabolism, and thanks to it he still bore the scars of over four decades of war.

He was using a machete, his favoured weapon for close-work, and his head was lathered in sweat. Four training-bots circled him, their blank helmeted heads and swift moving bodies blurred by their humming shield units. Bladed arms cut through the air as they tried to land a blow against the their owner. Programmed to complement each other, they attacked as one, utilising group tactics to try to overwhelm him.

Far from being dim-witted puppets with a few automated responses, they'd been designed by Doctor Dudley Noble himself with state of the art Virtual Intelligence's capable of mimicking independent thought and creativity too an alarming degree, and had it all applied to violence suitable for vicious combat models quite capable of ripping an ordinary man to bits. Wade had seen it happen when Slade set them on people, back when he had he had a factory in Jump City that manufactured them by the dozen, so that he could use them as expendable drones. Deadpool had no idea how it was he couldn’t get a robot buddy for love or money that was worth a damn (unless you counted his Roomba), but more conventional supervillains never seemed to have any trouble acquiring a plethora of them without any infrastructure whatsoever, but he didn’t feel obliged to point it out.

Deadpool watched Deathstroke curiously. It was always a lesson to watch his brother in motion, circling and crossing, never putting a foot wrong, each motion exact and severe. As it moved, the blade made a hard whistling sound like a whip.

With enviable skill, Slade turned away the slashing blade with the palm of his free hand. Spinning, he deflected a second and third blow coming from different angles, and his sword cut across the face of one of the training-bots. It's shield recognised the hit in a blaze of electronics, and the bot stepped back stiffly, powering down.

Deathstroke kept moving, rounding on another one of the bots. He executed a perfect kill thrust to the chest, before turning and dropping on one knee to perform a disemboweling thrust on another, a blade whistling just inches above his head. The last of the active servitors came at him and he rose to his feet. Sidestepping a vicious slash, he swung for it's neck. His blow was turned aside, and the bot lunged, it's reflexes inhuman, looking to rip out his heart.

Wade looked to make-sure the safety option was disabled, but he needn't have worried. Slade wouldn't have his opponents holding back, even if they were just toys.

With a deft circular movement of his sword Slade turned aside both blades as they jabbed at his chest, braced himself, lowering his centre of gravity. Rising, he lifted his shoulder into the bot's midsection. The weighty machine was lifted off the ground and went staggering backwards, and Slade dispatched it with a brutal blow to the head.

"Pause combat." He said before they could come back online. He went to the side of the training cage and replaced the blade on the weapons rack. Wiping a hand across his sweat slick head, he considered the array of weapons before choosing a heavy double-ended pole-arm. It had an axe-blade at one end and a curving crescent moon at the other. It was called some sort of spade, Deadpool was sure, although beyond that he didn't remember, or had never bothered to learn. Slade spun it around him with deft flicks, gauging it's weight and balance, then nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"You want a turn, brother?" He asked, though he paid Deadpool little attention, continuing to take tightly controlled practice swings with the new weapon.

"Yeah, that's not going to happen." Wade replied, holding up a hand. "Prefer to keep my head in the game by doing, rather then imagining, you know? And robots don't react to me like people. It's totally science. So what about you? Why the three hours in the glass cage of emotion?" He paused thoughtfully, then gave a cheeky grin beneath his mask that was almost invisible. "Getting old?"

A muscle twitched above Slade’s missing eye. “Don't start that. I can knock you on your arse in six seconds flat, and have your head off in half that." Slade warned “long in the tooth as I might be.” He wasn't boasting, he'd already done the calculations.

"Not the falling that matters, it's the getting back up, old timer." Deadpool replied. "His holiness the Dali Lama said that."

“You're taking an old, celibate, pacifist's advice on how to fight?" Slade asked. "Because that doesn't sound like a winning strategy."

"Hey they'll never see it coming. Anyway, all Asians are martial arts experts. Everyone knows that." Deadpool said defensively. "And their monks probably work the same way. Every movie I've ever seen confirms it. If he's top monk, then that means he's undefeated, and that none can best him in the ring of honour. It's totally true."

His brother isn't actually stupid. Sometimes, he has to forcibly remind himself that. "Right. Well, unless Shang-Chi or Sandra Wu-San has got religion and moved to Tibet, or they clone Bruce Lee from the dead again, I think it's a safe bet to ignore the koans when it comes to doing violence to people."

"Lets not go there, brother. Anyway, I came to ask where my favourite niece and nephews are." Deadpool said, while he still had his brothers attention. "The ones that are still alive, I mean. I wish to shower them with gifts, and humorous anecdotes about my life, and give them some hard-won advice about how to make it in this cruel, cruel world of ours. Or possibly patronise them and make them fight for my attention, I haven't decided yet. Maybe over indulge them with sweets and attention and over-priced gifts. Whatever. Either way, it's very important to bond with them now, before they grow too old and stop returning my calls like pretty much everyone else I know, and besides, they're already much too old to want to fly a kite or say 'jeepers' unironically, which means that the magic of childhood is already almost used up.”

“You don’t know much about kids, do you?”

“Well, how hard can it be?”

Slade stared at him levelly, stopping swinging the weapon as he did, and holding it loosely in his right hand. Wade didn't back down. At last he sighed, and shrugged his broad shoulders. "They are both in their twenties."

"So what, turn eighteen and they're out of your house and your life?"

Slade looked at him sharply. It was a moment before he replied. "Grant is dead. Rose is looking for her mother. Jericho is still in Washington. We'll see him after we finish this job, and you can be as bad an influence as you like. He's got a new body, and is talking again." he said, a little defensively.

Wade, tactful as ever, grabbed onto the first point like a tick. "Isn't Rose's mom, you know, dead-"

"Yes. Buried her myself." Slade replied stiffly. Then, before Wade could offer another word, added "Recommence combat, threat level eight." The five training-bots jerked back into motion, circling him again.

"So, is she like, mysteriously back alive and much younger, now wearing a costume and with a more era appropriate history? Because you might just have hit the jackpot." He was forced to raise his voice above the escalating clamour in the training cage, but that didn't concern him. He could be as loud as he needed to be. "I mean, Lillian must have been something special, if she got you to cheat on Adeline. You must have all sorts of unresolved -"

Slade spun, sweeping the legs from under one, before smashing another to the ground with an empathetic blow to the head. "No." Slade said, parrying a swift blow before kicking the bot away from him with a heavy boot. "She's dead. I checked. Rose is deluding herself.”

"Ah. And you figured the sensible parenting decision was to leave her adrift in her own insanity, rather then get her professional help." He clapped his hands together and tilted his head. "Nice going, father of the year."

"She can look after herself. Which is more then I can say about you." Slade said, knocking the last of his opponents down with a series of stabbing thrusts. "Pause combat."

"That's harsh. But it's not really an answer. You're mister control freak, no way would you let her just leave unless you had no choice. What are the two of you fighting about?"

Slade stepped over to the wall where he lifted a heavy, double-headed hammer from the weapons rack. "Recommence combat, threat level nine."

"And why is it so important I come on this really self-indulgent mission with you?"

"Deadpool."

"Yes, that's what they call me, though I'd prefer 'your holiness'."

"Not now." Slade said, adjusting his grip on the hammer. “I’m concentrating.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doc Noble is from the series 'Noble Causes', which I've always had a soft spot for. It's not as good as it could be, but it's essentially as much soap opera as superhero, exploring fame and celebrity with the characters constantly in the spotlights and the tabloids.
> 
> If you've noticed a few inconsistencies in the characters recollections, that's because Slade and Deadpool are a hybrid of versions of themselves. They both were originally jar-heads in 'Nam, before being experimented on because that was their mutual original backstory, and one of the themes of the story is about being left behind by a changing world. But beyond that, it's anyone's guess.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, an assassins job is just work, work, work all the time!

A few hours had passed. Deadpool had gone through all the things he could find, but found nothing engaging. He'd tried moving the furniture around, to see if his brother would notice, but that got old really quickly, and he was pretty much certain the answer was a resounding 'no'. So he tried sneaking out of the house, but Wintergreen always materialised before he could get far, and reeled him back in that polite but instant British way he had long perfected. Deadpool could have gotten out anyway, of course, but he didn't want to be an asshole. At last he decided to follow the oldest and noblest of American traditions, and sit back to watch TV, despite the quality of the programs or lack thereof. He'd tried a movie, only to find that Slade didn't have any, entertainment being far below self-improvement in his priorities. There were taped training sessions and observation records (and really, why should that be surprising), lectures and events he wanted to be able to refer to, a DVD for teaching oneslf to speak several languages, when he wanted to brush up his skill, but nothing to take the edge off a dull evening, except taped episodes of Arrested Development.

Apparently, still waters ran deep. Or else one of his kids got him hooked on it. He didn't have a netflix account or something because keeping off the grid was something of a factor. So Deadpool had turned on the Disney channel to show solidarity to his owners, and hope they'd let him into the next Avengers movie.

Slade finally joined him, dressed in a white silk shirt that was unbuttoned at the top, and dark slacks. He'd showered and stretched, and his face was less stern and severe then normal. Pretending to kill a lot of people was great for his complexion.

"So, lets hold a planning session! I've never understood the appeal myself, just make it up as I go along, but whatever works. Hey, it would be a lot more bearable if we had snacks."

"Wintergreen is making dinner. We can eat later."

"I take it that you had him prepare Mexican?"

"Chimichangas, heated up in the microwave." Slade replied. "I know what you like, don't worry."

"Then what are we talking for? Lets go eat or whatever."

"Sit down. Shut up. We will figure this out, then you can indulge yourself."

"Check myself before I wreck myself? Fine. So if we can get down to brass tacks, so I can eat, how do you plan to find Wolverine? I mean, his popularity is waning, so you can't count on him making ludicrous and blatantly gratuitous public appearances where he isn't wanted anymore. I got that covered for him. We could get Sabertooth to track him, he always seems to be able to find him, 'cept I don't know where he is either. Chicken or the egg. What if we get his estranged son, Daken, to..."

Slade looked at him blankly. If he didn't no better, he'd think his brother had done some research. "How do you know so much about his family?"

Deadpool looked at his feet, and shuffled them. "I wanted to be an X-man. Don't judge me." He mumbled.

"While you're hardly normal, you're not a mutant, Wade." Slade said. "What's wrong with being an Avenger? Or joining the Justice Society, if you don't want to be the governments bitch? Something with a little dignity, that gets you a little respect. Not a bunch of private school rejects with messed up genetics."

"It wasn't a private school. And I told you not to judge me."

"Whatever. Will the job be a problem for you?" Never getting involved with a client was even more important for an assassin then it was for a Private Detective.

"What job? We're not getting paid! You saw to that!"

"Good. Regardless, we don't need to track him, because I had Thomas Blake find him, and the intel checks out. He's in Alaska. Alone for the most part, though he has people over now and again, and has a squeeze over, though what she sees in him I'll never know. Done his best to defect from civilisation and the human race."

"Tom who?"

"Blake. You know..." Slade sighed. There was no getting out of this one. "Catman."

"...Catman? You gave work to Catman? Slade, are you on drugs? And if so, that's some good stuff. I mean, I don't know if he was ripping off Cat-woman or Wildcat, but the guys a flabby failure, who only hasn't gone the way of so many other C-listers because actually putting him in the ground would be an unforgivable waste of ammunition. I doubt he has the credibility to even get a seat at the Iceberg lounge, let alone go after..." Deadpool trails off meaningfully. "He had a catamaran, for the sake of the gribbly tentacled outer gods."

Slade shrugs. "I think he wanted to be Batman, actually." He said lightly. This was a side of Slade that only his brother ever saw, and was probably the closest thing to a man behind the mask of 'Deathstroke the Terminator' that was left. All anyone else got to see was a curt, disinterested and threatening demeanour, or occasionally a strategist and warrior. "But people change. And working with the Secret Six has done wonders for him."

Wade bristled. "You defending his catamaran?"

"I'd think you would be the expert on being treated as a joke."

"Yeah right, I only play the fool. And I still think you're being had. Why would he want to be in Alaska? Wolverine, not Catman. Seriously, there's fifty thousand trees to every woman, and nothing to drink."

"He's a loner without a purpose, and no meaningful connection to anyone anymore. It fits."

"Fits so well that apparently mister Catman was able to track him down in six hours. Yeah, I'm real convinced that’s good intel.”

"He got an address from an old associate, then confirmed it. Noah Kuttler vouched for it. And I paid Luthor rates, so he knows he better be sure."

"You mean the Calculator? The guy who runs around with giant buttons on his chest?"

"Just because you have a gimmick doesn't mean you're useless." Slade replied evenly.

"Well, maybe, but it's just not exciting. I mean, Wolverine? Retiring? You'd think he'd at least try to find an ambiguously ethnic girl half his apparent age and start a family embracing pacifism, only to be forced to make his way across America alongside a recently blinded Hawkeye to save his new family from The Hulk, or something else marketable that they can try and convince people to buy despite being negative continuity. Not just withdraw into himself and drop off the radar." Deadpool shook his head. "I'm honestly kinda disappointed. Maybe we'll be doing him a favor."

Slade doubted that, but didn't say so. He didn't want to get too far off topic. "My instinct tells me not to bother with anything artful, taking him down. Just lure him somewhere, call him out, put him down, toss him in front of a train or two, then leave him somewhere until he starves to death. Bringing minions will just get them killed, and clue him in, which will lead to a long hunt through the wilderness. If I bring in the Deathstrike Clan-"

"That's still a really, really stupid name, that was already taken by some cyborg lady. You should have gone with something catchy like-"

"The Deathstrike Clan." Slade repeated, raising his voice slightly over the top of his brothers. "We'd lose anonymity and give warning. Besides, I'm still not entirely happy with them yet. They need work."

"You're telling me. You don't even own the rights to their name."

A few years back, Deathstroke had been dragged into the secret war that had waged in Asia since the dawn of civilisation, and had killed a man. As a direct consequence he had become grandmaster of a splinter-faction of the Lin Kuei, which were an ancient Chinese clan who worked as assassins in the seven cities of heaven that were only connected to this world once every decade (or some woo-woo like that).

Slade had no interest in their ancient war or the responsibilities and dogma that came with it, but he had an eye for talent, and in them he'd seen potential. In order to make use of them had been adapting their outdated tactics and doctrine, and trying to get them to embrace modernisation and the advantages it bought, as well as artificially inducing meta-human qualities into them stolen from a range of sources (Miracolo, Extremis, there were plenty of ways if you knew what you were looking for, and weren't worried about putting down failures). He had made up for their depleted numbers by recruiting from convicts, and borrowed cult leader tactics to try and convert them to their new tasks.

So far, he's had limited success, but hope springs eternal. One day, he'd have his own private army of highly trained, disciplined and fanatical meta-human magic-assassins, but it was proving to be a lot of work to get them to a level where they were ready to cut it in the real world. For the most part, robots and drone strikes were easier, and doing it himself was easier still.

"Well, sure. But he does have a lot of friends, you know, and I'm not sure we can take all of them. What do we do if Freakazoid, Bueno Excellente, or Squirrel Girl or someone else shows up?"

Slade shuddered a little from contact revulsion. "Alaska is a long way from Gotham or Wisconsin, and anyway, how would he contact them?"

"Don't tell me you aren't concerned? You don't have to act tough, there's nobody to impress around."

"I don't get scared when it comes to dignifying absurdity." Slade replied haughtily. "And neither should you. What safety do you have to be concerned about?"

"Well... actually, good point. Though there is my dignity to consider."

"Dignity...?" He trailed off, then shook his head and got back on subject. "Regardless, Wolverine's an easy target. Couldn't be more vulnerable if he was trying to be. Living alone, cut off from civilisation and nothing immediately in his favour but his skills and the home-field advantage. All his friends are miles away, so if he does get word out we'll be long gone before they actually show up. Odds are pretty much all in our favour, even in a fair fight."

"If I were you, brother, I'd cheat as much as I could." Deadpool replied shaking his head, then stepped back. "But you say it's a matter of honour, and I pretend to respect that, though why we can't turn an honest profit from honour I don't know."

"There are some things more important then money."

"What, like friendship is the real treasure?"

"…Yes. Like that."

"Well 'conceptual' rewards should be saved for 'conceptual' assassinations." Deadpool replied, folding his arms. "Because this op - we do call it an op, right? Even if we are independent unaffiliated contractors? Op just sounds awesome - is already running at a loss. You paid Calculator and Catman for services out of pocket, which puts us firmly in the black, or the red, or whatever the bad colour happens to be.”

“And it’s such a mystery why you still live in that crappy apartment”

“And thanks to your little 'keep the change, my good man' big-shot 'look who thinks he's Frank Sinatra' move, we don't stand to make the cash again." Deadpool folded his arms.

"You keep saying we, yet it was my money." Slade pointed out.

"And just who is the main beneficiary on your will? I stand to inherit sir, once Wintergreen and your kids have finished picking your corpse like vultures. The diluting of your finances is of great personal concern. Now why, in the name of Oprah's many chins, won't you give me a straight answer?"

Slade slammed the table with the palm of his hand, the furniture cracking in protest. It seemed a little melodramatic, such a sudden over-reaction, but it did get the message across. "Damn it Wade, that's my business. And after all I've done for you..."

"No call for cheap-shots." Deadpool mumbled over the top. "Besides, at least I tell you why. I don't say 'Hey brother, how you been, listen I want you to 'whack' this creepy chick'. I say 'Hey brother, what's happening, how are the kids, kill anyone interesting? Oh, before I forget, there's this creepy stalker chick named Dr. Ella Whitby, who collects my severed limbs and keeps them in a fridge for nefarious reasons. Could you kill her so I can sleep at night without the comfort of a light on, please?'. Or 'Hey, there's this guy, Ajax by assumed name, lets %&$# him up, you and me.'." He paused. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"No problem."

"So don't act like this is the same, because you're hiding things from me, and I don't like it. Makes me feel expendable, like I'm blindly trusting you and you're going to betray me."

“And after all I've done for you..." Slade repeated. ”… I'd expect a little trust, alright?" He finished, ignoring his brothers babbling. It's a skill that comes and goes.

"I just went over this. I trust you, but I'd like you to trust me. Come on, I'm sure there are hundreds of legitimate reasons not to want to get paid, even if I don't have a clue what they might be. Is it like not wanting to be placed in a higher tax bracket or something? Tell me. I promise not to laugh."

"Pick your equipment and whatever else you think you need, and load it all up in the back of the truck, then dress warm. We're going north." Slade said, with finality, then stood up and walked away. Wade thought a moment, changed to the disney channel to show solidarity to his owners, then changed the channel again and squealed when he noted he was just in time for a new episode of 'My Little Pony; Friendship is Magic', which he was sure was reaching the very apex of its popularity given it's universal appeal, and wasn't a tired reference squeezed of any interest at all.

He idly wondered what Cutie Mark Nate would have, and if it would match his.


	5. Chapter 5

 "W'shar luv t'be buck home, b'hay, eh." Deadpool said, in a horrifically exaggerated accent that would have caused any casual listener lingering physical pain. Wade was the only one who loved the sound of his own voice, even the people most affectionate towards him would find it to be the auditory equivalent of having a steel needle being slowly driven into their skull. Nobody needed that effect exaggerated.

And they had been indeed, or a part of it anyway. Wolverine had, for reasons best known to him, but likely involving unresolved and unsubstantiated guilt, vanished into the wilderness and let it swallow him up. Here, the tall stark trees were more black then green, the ground was rough and uncertain, and roads were a dubious proposition. It wasn't quaint, there was no 'sylvan tranquility' or 'picturesque natural beauty', and certainly no 'peace and quiet'. It was a North American Jungle, and it was so far remote even God hadn't thought about it recently.

"Drop the accent. We crossed the border again," He glanced at his watch. "Half an hour ago."

"Tha's my background 'n all dat, y' hozer, eh."

"No it's not. You were born there, but we both grew up in Ohio, and you have no reason to pretend."

"I just want to fit in and be accepted." Deadpool said with a pout that was entirely wasted, since his brother didn't take his eye off the road, and besides, he was still wearing his mask. Slade had been driving eight hours nonstop, but didn't trust Deadpool to remain focussed on the job, so was looking forward to a sleepless night driving through the wilderness. Hopefully without killing anyone, but since they were both wanted fugitives who had remained on of Interpol's most wanted for decades at a time, that was unlikely in the extreme. He'd wanted to just hop a freight, but Wade had refused, and sometimes deferring to him was just less effort.

Slade liked big, powerful vehicles that could handle anything. He'd probably drive an all-terrain tank if he could find a cloaking device durable enough to let him get away with it. Even undercover, he drove a black hummer, and only because he'd lost his collection of muscle cars that he'd bought and carefully restored after an unfortunate explosion at one of his safe-houses. The thing barely made a mile to the gallon, but it was absurdly spacious, powerful, climate-controlled, had leather seats and had tinted windows so was passingly private, and made a fine improvised weapon. But once they'd gotten off the highways and into the wilderness they'd taken a ship along the coast, then swapped it for a jeep that was more suitable for handling the rugged Alaskan wilderness. Deadpool wanted him to buy Triphammer and get a flying car, but Slade was yet to be convinced of the soundness of the investment, and Wade was still broke, having spent the last of his savings on a crushed-velvet Austin Powers suit that had then gotten lost at customs, and was currently awaiting pickup in Nepal.

The jeep, if you feel comfortable calling it that, was in actuality a modified old Army truck; the thing’s chassis was about four feet off the ground, mounted on enormous all-terrain tires that one imagined could crush the Hulk. It had an eight-foot flatbed, full of all the guns for Slade decided he didn't need, and so much reinforcing and armour that you could drive it through a warzone without noticing.

It also came with a radio, which Deadpool couldn't find a station to settle on.

<…solid alibi. The man-hunt for his inter-dimensional duplicate, while initially promising, has failed to live up to initial…>

<…provoked an armed confrontation in Mexico City leaving dozens dead or in critical condition…>

<…has once again evaded jail-time despite overwhelming evidence against…>

<…five major insurance companies are declaring bankruptcy following the…>

<…tens of thousands thought to be dead in the wake of Brainiac's latest…>

<…Monstroso LaVey informed the court that he has no intention of co-operating with what he terms as 'character assassination', and has every intention, despite protest from legal correspondents that it makes a mockery of the proceedings, to represent himself…>

<…all residents in the greater Piqua, Ohio area are warned that their lives are in danger, as the marauding killers known as the Slaughterhouse 9 have been spotted in that area who are unlikely to…>

<…wanted for seventeen counts of…>

<…at least five banks into debt, was awarded a seven billion dollar bonus…>

<…for crimes against…>

<…The President has found that his predecessor…>

<…The investigation has not…>

<…his skrull impersonator was largely responsible for the work, therefore…>

<…and welcome back to 'Space Ghost from Coast to Coast'…>

"Oh come on. Is there anything on the news anymore but current events and politics? Where is the shallow entertainment and gossip?" Deadpool pouted. "Seriously, it's ridiculous. All I want to do is listen to something vapid and pointless and unsubstantial about people I'll never meet, but nobody is covering it."

"That's my bread and butter your whining about." Slade replied mildly.

Deadpool blew a raspberry.

"There's an eight-track." Slade offered as compromise.

Deadpool blinked. "You really are a creature of habit, aren't you." He shook his head. "Why do you have an eight-track?"

Slade shrugged. "Got used to it, I guess."

Deadpool sighed.

"There's plenty of Elton John and Bowie." Slade added.

Deadpool would have been lying if he claimed not to be a little tempted at that particular prospect. "Maybe later. So how long do you reckon before we run into Alpha Flight?" Deadpool asked.

"Hopefully we won't."

"Yes, but we inevitably will. You can't go through Canada without running into them, it's basic logic. I mean, what else is there in Canada?"

Slade didn't reply, though he was aware that, as questionable as his brother's reasoning was, meeting them thanks to some contrived circumstance would remain a distinct possibility.

Deadpool watched the landscape go by for as long as he could, which turned out to be a few minutes as it started sleeting with rain, turning it all a uniform drab grey and leaching the colour from everywhere, at which point he decided to try conversation again, for hope sprang eternal. The landscape was boring anyway, there were no signs of hockey, lumberjacks, or Mounties riding down ne'er do wells.

He'd tried a dozen times a minute since they'd started the trip, and nothing Slade had done shut him up for any length of time. If it was even possible to get Wade to shut-up, Slade had yet to find a way to do it that worked more than once.

"So, you're still single, huh?"

"What?" Slade said, thrown off by an entirely unexpected attack. Not even experience helped to predict Deadpool.

"Elementary, my dear Wilson. None of the other rooms in the house are being used, the house feels completely empty. It's just your stuff. And Wintergreens, unless that's your moustache wax. So you must be alone there." Deadpool wished he had a pipe to smoke. It would look so dignified when he showed off his awesome detective skills.

"I am. So what?"

"You called several people, but not one for personal reasons, therefore there's nobody expecting to see you."

"I am, so what?" Slade repeated patiently.

"Furthermore, the initially puzzling lack of any variety in your household waste suggests…"

"I am. So what?" Slade interrupted, finally getting though.

"So you should get some company you're not related to, given that after you abducted, or possibly adopted Robin, then Raven, not to mention that earth girl whatsherface, I have to keep telling people you're not another Max Damage."

"What, I don't get enough sleep, and I like to mass-murder?"

"No, pretty much everyone knows those two things. You know, like his sidekicks…" Deadpool trailed off meaningfully.

Slade blinked. Then he blinked again. The whole line of direction this conversation was suddenly taking was so unexpected, he didn't even get angry. It took him a moment to comprehend the suggestion. Then he tried to answer, but his soldier's vocabulary just didn't have the superlatives. As a man of action, he did the only thing that fitted. He swerved sharply, pulling the vehicle over by the side of the road. "Give me names." He said, in a voice that was dangerously quiet.

Deadool hadn't expected to get this far, and floundered a little, trying to think of where to go with it. "Look, that's a bad idea. If you do kill them they'll just get more convinced. It's a matter of appearances, and rumour. Well, Terra is pretty common knowledge, but first you abduct Robin, then you abduct Raven, people notice a pattern. And whatever makes a good story. I mean, not an actual story, but the sort of bullcrap people talk, you know? Hang on, I'm not explaining this very well. Think I got some finger puppets somewhere in here..."

He did, as a matter of fact, and took out his finger-puppets in order to demonstrate something. What exactly he expected Slade to get out of it is unknowable, but it seemed to make sense to him, and involved lots of wiggling. Why he carried around finger-puppets in his pouches is a big enough question on it's own. "Anyway, the best way to fight rumors like this is put them to sleep. Find a grown-up girl. Make a big deal about using her shamelessly."

Slade sighed. He closed his eye again for a long moment, and took a deep breath. Then he looked at his brother. "Look, Wade, I know you're trying to help me in your way. But shut up. And I don't need any distractions in my life right now."

"Distractions. Yeah, it would be a real tragedy if there was someone to interrupt all your working-out and brooding. How would you get anything done?" Deadpool replied, sarcastically, putting the finger-puppets away given he no longer needed visual aids. The two had a close, if bizarre, bond, and Wade honestly did want to help his brother. The problem was, he's the last person on any world who should be giving advice. "Seriously. Meet people. Treat yourself to a long vacation. Attend a convention or two, hook up with some young but still legally of age..."

"I mean it." Iron crept into Slade's tone. When he spoke like that, you either did what he said or got ready for a fight.

"Well have it your way." Deadpool said, exasperated, crossing his arms and looking out the window to sulk. It was really boring. There was nothing to look at but mile after mile of snow, trees, snow, rain, snow, road, and also snow. "Are there any discussions we can have? Or are you going to jump down my throat every time I say anything?"

"So how's Shiklah, by the way?"

Deadpool brightened. "She took me back! Turns out it was all a misunderstanding, and it's been great ever since. The whole war that I was worried about didn't happen, what with Dracula being abducted by the British, so everything is great. I mean, she wants to try for kids and I'm not quite ready for that, but…" He paused. He was forgetting something. Something important. Something that could ruin everything. Something about an old enemy… "She's spending some time with her side of the family. Morrigan and Lilith."

"Right." Slade said, and went quiet. A few minutes passed in silence.

"Thanks for the Dethklok CD, by the way. She loved it. Apparently, it reminds her of home."

"Thank Jericho. He picked it."

"I will." Silence again.

"I don't get why you're up for this. I mean, you always make a big deal about not actually killing targets unless it's safe, to avoid dangerous people who can juggle planets going after you for revenge that you can't handle."

"Sometimes you have to take risks." Slade replied noncommittally. He was still terse about the last conversational subject.

"So how are we going to actually kill him? I mean, put him in the ground, not just beat him up. In case you haven't noticed, he's A-list, and as awesome as we both are, A-list guys never get killed off for good."

"I've got a few tricks. Leave that to me."

"Seriously, this all screams expendable antagonist. Name one A-list guy you've killed permanently." Deadpool challenged. "And I mean world famous."

"Adrian Vedit, formerly known as Ozymandius. '99, knife to the solar plexus." Slade said. "First job I ever did for Darius Dax." It was a simpler time back then. The anti-mutant hysteria was coming to an end, the super-heroes, having lost their leadership were in a bit of a decline because the new ones hadn't really gotten organised and were always randomly attacking one another due to miscommunications, global communications had been a joke, and the world had seemed an endless potential. For some people, that had turned out to be the case, others - not so much.

Deadpool blinked. "Really? Darius Dax had Ozymandius killed? I had no idea. But now the truth is exposed, and sweet perversion Batman, that's indecent!"

"Pays the bills." Slade replied, chuckling a little at the spot-on impression of the first Robin - and the closest thing Slade probably had to a nemesis, as horribly unbalanced as that match-up would appear to be at first glance.

"OK, so that's pretty impressive, but even so he was a has been by then. Even if his original material is pretty highly regarded for some reason…"

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

"No I don't, as a matter of fact. I'm practically reduced to inventing imaginary friends in the form of brand new head voices in order to keep my sanity and not go mad from the isolation." Deadpool pouted. "Come on, killing is something we have in common. Kiss and tell, just this once."

"Define challenge."

"Easy. Tough fight."

"The Winter Soldier."

"Ah, hate to break it to you, but he's still kicking."

"No, I mean the original. Alpha Red.”

"Never heard of him."

"That's how good he was." Slade replied. "One of the toughest fights of my life."

"And it was against somebody nobody else as ever heard of. When you die nobody will remember him, it'll be like he never even existed."

"Fair."

"A-list, world famous, popular enough to hold his own comic." he paused. "And that business with Tommy Monaghan doesn't count, before you bring it up."

"That business with who?"

"Some guy you killed. Called himself Hitman. Shock-value masquerading as humor."

"I'm running a blank."

"Doesn't matter, he doesn't count."

Slade lost patience. "Oh, pick a name. Aztec? Mr Dark? Shaft, Chapel and the rest of that iteration of Youngblood?"

"Wait what? That was you? I always thought they died of apathy or schedule slip or something like that."

Slade wasn't done. "How about Dr Quest? Robert Kaufmann? Warblade, Zealot, and the rest of those Kherubian-blooded paramilitant idiots? The Elite - at least The Engineer and Midnighter?" He all but growled. "Seen any of them lately? Not to mention Martial Law? Tom Strong? Julius and Augustus Furst? Dr Jonas Venture?"

"You had nothing to do with…"

"Senior."

"You killed Jonas Senior? Why?"

"For money, obviously." Slade replied, rolling his eye.

"Right. Ask a stupid question." He paused, weighing their current circumstances in hand, then shrugged. That was too much psychoanalysing for him. "Alright, fine. I admit that's all very, very impressive, if a lot of them are ranging into a slightly different genre. And I'm curious how you killed Midnighter - believe me I'll ask you about it in a later issue. But still, Wolverine is basically an institution."

"If you trust me to do anything, trust me to kill people."

“Fair.” He paused. There was something bugging him. "So wait, isn't there going to be a flashback?"

"Brother, this isn't a movie."

"Oh? Who did you hear it from? That's a shame." Deadpool replied. "Must be a miniseries, or web-video or something. Still, in this economy, you do what you gotta do. Just as long as it is a live-action thing, that's all. They could have swapped out the particularly jacked Ron Perlman - who is who I presume they got to play you, for Manu Bennett guest-starring to play a younger you, in some retro-costume with lots of orange and pouches and buccaneer boots." Deadpool said wistfully. "How about at least a single action panel showing the brutality."

"You're not making any sense at all."

"Aren't I? Enough with all the talk. Yes, I talk a lot, it's kinda my thing, but this is a visual medium, damnit!"

"Is this your way of asking 'are we there yet'?"

"At least tell me how you killed the Midnighter, if you won't show me. That sounds really cool." He asked after a moment. "I always figured there must have been a kill switch or something, given his ridiculous abilities."

"Not to my knowledge. He wasn't particularly weak against successive application of blunt-force trauma to the face, but it got the job done eventually."

"That's it? You hit him in the face a lot?"

"There was more to it then that." He paused. "Well, not a lot more."

"Tell me anyway."

Slade didn't answer for a long moment. "Do you really want to go over that?"

"Actually? Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much." Deadpool replied. "Lets swap stories for a bit. I'll tell you all about the time I fought Bobba Fett in a rap battle."

"Who?"

"The coolest guy ever, at least according to one nerdy subculture."

"Like Joss Whedon, or Kevin Smith?"

"No, he's fictional."

“Joss Whedon or Kevin Smith?”

“I…” Deadpool paused. “You’re #%&@ing with me.”

“A little bit.”

“Well, if you don't want to share stories, I will. The thing about Bobba Fett is…”

Slade sighed. "Tell you what, I'll tell you a story if you promise you never do that."

"I'll take it. But you're missing out. Fett's got moves."

"Fine. This was about three years ago."

"It was a more innocent time, long ago, when America was a better place. People were still really enthused by new episodes of Game of Thrones, a number of celebrity marriages hadn't broken up by physical abuse and alcoholism, Politics might not have made sense, but at least they weren't a circus, the runaway craze was being mass-manufactured by soulless corporations but soon would be replaced another, Pluto… hadn’t been a planet for a long time, and everyone was still excited about…"

"Am I telling the story, or are you?"

"You're providing the facts, I'm making them interesting by providing context. People can't be expected to do that on their own, try and pay attention."

Slade didn't respond until Deadpool started nudging him. "Superman had broken up the Authority."

"Oh, actually, tell me about that. That sounds way more exciting."

Slade shrugged. "You know, it was mostly on the news."

"I was busy getting my heart broken. I didn't have time to watch the news."

"Fine. After two decades of talk, talk, talk, they finally got enough muscle to stop doing nothing but talk - complain about the status quo, and they got some public support as well. This made them upity. Anyway, this guy called Magog…"

"Cable's Evil Alternate future self! Heh, yeah I remember that."

"What, really?" Slade blinked, then paused thoughtfully. He mentally compared the two, and could only nod. "I can see that, actually. Now that you point it out, aside from the helmet they're practically identical."

"No." Deadpool said. "Nope, that's who we were looking for, and he'd just appeared, and with the biblical name referencing apocalypse it made sense so we targeted him. But it turns out it was all a huge coincidence, the design was inspired by Cable, and the guy we were looking for actually was some other guy. But don't worry, we killed him. I think Magog helped, I don't really remember that team-up all that well, because the timelines trying to remove it from continuity or something." He paused. "And I was still broken up about getting my heart broken. I was a total mess. I think I might have joined a cult."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but that was this other thing with Cable. We all turned blue. You don't want to hear about it."

Slade shook his head. "Should I go on?"

"You better."

"Fine. He almost caused a nuclear explosion in Kansas in a fight with Parasite, and Superman had enough, so he called them out. They tried to attack him, and Superman took off the kiddie gloves." He paused. "That's about it."

"And yet it got an entire animated movie." Deadpool raised an eyebrow. "OK, good first try. Now tell it again. And make it more exciting. And make the fights roughly 30% more elaborate and difficult, and change everyone's name."

"No."

"Well at least tell me the first story. You versus Midnighter."

"Fine."

"And my original advice. Make it more exciting."

"Be grateful you're getting the story you're getting." Slade replied. "I was approached by Prometheus, of all people. You know who that is, right? Well, he wanted to upgrade his tech, I guess. The Authority were history by then, Hawksmoor was executed, Manchester Black, Magog and Apollo were out of the picture, the rest that were still alive had mostly gone their separate ways. The remainder were trying to rebrand, they were going by 'The Elite'. Prometheus got someone to kill Midnighter's husband Apollo, can't remember who…"

"Neither can I, it's like whoever is making up the story you're telling can't be bothered to make something up…"

"But that didn't do much more then get him out of the way. Anyway, so I tracked him down and staked him out. It wasn't actually all that hard, he was too dependent on his implants warning him to know to keep his guard up, and he had a dozen or so social media accounts he used to pick up guys. So I took my time, kept an eye on him without doing a thing to set him off. When I'd figured out my plan of attack, I picked my ground, kidnapped a kid who looked a lot like that adopted girl of his, and sent him a tape through one of his social media accounts, and I used her as bait to lure him into a place I'd set up."

Deadpool blanched. This stroll down memory lane had taken a dark turn, and was now in some dark alleyway behind a cinema where a punk with a gun was threatening his parents for his mothers pearl necklace. Not that she'd ever had one - but his own origin story was less applicable to the metaphor. "You what?" He choked, genuinely horrified.

"For a self-proclaimed badass, he was a sentimental sort." Slade replied shamelessly. "Didn't even have to torture her or anything to get his attention, just threaten her a bit. He takes that about as well as you'd expect, and shows up all alone to the old bunker in the desert that I'm operating out of, that happened to be surrounded by a minefield. And me with a gatling gun, and he doesn't try to be intelligent. He lets his moral outrage do the thinking for him."

Deadpool blinked. He was now even less comfortable with the direction the story was taking. "Easy as that?"

"Not quite. He had to cross half a mile with no cover, dodging bullets and explosions the whole way. Which he did by the way - he was designed for that sort of thing I guess." Slade smiled and shook his head. "He must have really hated me. Anyway, when he got close, I tossed away the gun, and entered the bunker. The idiot followed me into it, figuring the worst was over and that he could depend on his enhancements for anything else I threw at him, instead of coming up with a plan, and I beat him to death with a lead-pipe."

Deadpool blinked. "How? Isn't his whole schtick that if there is a statistical possibility, no matter how small, that he can win, then he does?"

By now, Slade was quite enjoying himself. "Don't believe the hype. A billion calculations a second, sure, but that's nothing close to every possibility. That's brute force profiling, not determinism. But yeah, he wasn't going to lose in any sort of fair fight. So I fixed the odds. See, he still depends upon his senses for data his implants can interpret - classic example of over-engineered, over-priced useless, anyone with much in the way of actual combat experience rather then vicariously living it out through others would have known better then to build it. Whoever thought he was a viable replacement to me…"

It was that classic mono-myth, upgrade versus prototype, power versus experience. There was only one way that ever turns out. Deadpool thought. "Bendix. Who was stupid."

"…Yeah." Slade paused. "You have to be really smart to be as stupid as Bendix. Of course, the bunker was the trap. All I had to do was wait for him to enter, remotely sealed the hatch shut behind him, then switched on my helmets night-vision and turned out the lights, leaving him running blind. Then just in case, I cut my helmets sound receptors and flooded the bunker with noise." He paused meaningfully. "Rolling Stones 'Gimme Shelter'. Played out at 188 decibels. They'd lost their ship long since - The Authority, not the Rolling Stones - so he couldn't teleport out, and with no sight, smell or sound he didn't have any numbers to punch and couldn't make any calculations. He flailed around helplessly, like a fish on a chopping board or David Caradine at a kung-fu exhibition…"

"Harsh! But kinda dated."

"…and I beat him to death, and managed to make a profit hocking what was left of his fancy neuro-implants to some conservatorium of Italians, since Prometheus' money never materialised. The Italians were interested in making more of him apparently, but I haven't seen any, so I guess blunt force-trauma destroyed what was left of the inside of his head and they couldn't get anything usable. That or Prometheus got involved again." He shrugged. "Interesting intellectual exercise in rigging the fight in your favour, I guess, but nothing particularly exciting."  Nice. Imagine that, just as predicted, the original model smacks down the uppity new and improved. What a twist.

Deadpool dropped that train of thought, out of fear of straining his sarcasm muscle. "And the girl?"

"What? What girl?"

Deadpool suddenly felt a clammy feeling on the back of his neck sliding it's way down his spine. "The girl you kidnapped to bait the…"

"Right. Dropped her off at the police station with an ice-cream cone and a bag with six-hundred-thousand in uncut diamonds." Slade shrugged. "I'm not great with kids, even my own, but I didn't actually hurt her."

But you would have, Deadpool didn't need to say, not as relieved as he thought he would be. You would have. And no matter what, you'll never care, you'll just find some justification that works for you, and never think about it again. His head voices noted that given the exposure they weren't getting it was a shame to waste their cameo on something so banal, but it didn't translate in the medium.

Deadpool sighed, and gave up trying to get Slade to talk to him. He was just reaching for the radio to try and find a station to listen to where the static was less objectionable, when he saw a blur of something out of the corner of his eye. Something white. But when he turned to look, it was gone.

The engine gave a cough, then a splutter. "Not good." Slade said suddenly. The jeep's engine crackled then died completely. They rode to a halt in the shade of some black-trunked pine trees. Slade turned the key a few more times, but the engine only coughed and spluttered and refused to live.

Deadpool clambered out of his seat, and hurried around the front of the truck to pop the hood. Slade followed him patiently.

Wade looked down, tapped a few things and made sucking noises, trying to give the impression that it all meant something to him, then turned to Slade. This was his chance to be a proper bloke, and bond with his brother over proper bloke things. Eat lots of red meat, drive pick-up trucks, adjust some really large nuts (with a spanner. Probably), that sort of thing. He wasn't going to screw it up. "If you ask me," he said, in a voice deeper then usual, thumbs in his belt-loops "we should try to fill it with bananas. I don't think anyone's tried that before, so who's to say it won't work? So what do you think?"

"In all the time we've known each other, what gives you the impression that I have the slightest idea how to fix a car's engine?" Slade replied with a shrug. "I can about switch a tire."

Deadpool groaned. So much for that. "Oh come on. I've seen you build robots and complex explosives, and gadgets at least as cool as Batmans. You can fly planes and boats and WW2 submarines. How much harder can this be?"

Slade only shrugged. When it came to advanced technology, or even not so advanced, Slade preferred stealing or coercing from others. "Do you see a fully stocked workshop anywhere around here? Or even schematics, what it's supposed to look like?"

"Well don't look at me! As a problem solver I pretty much shoot things and stab things - and occasionally annoy them to the point that they trigger a mental collapse followed by a psychotic break, or when I'm on a roll make them laugh so hard they spurt malt liquor out of their noses. And while we can keep that in reserve, I don't think my methods will motivate the engine to start again." Deadpool said, drawing a magnum that looked like it had just come off the set of a western, and cocking back the hammer. "Hey, isn't this a rental? Oh, you are so losing your deposit."

Slade growled. "We don't need this. It will be dark soon, and we're a hundred miles from nowhere." The sky above was still clear and pale, but the heavy shadow of the hills ahead was fast approaching as the sun sank.

"Hey, relax, nothing scarier in these big bad woods then you or I. I even brought beer, so we can look at the stars and do some male-bonding - talk about our feelings and our hopes and dreams, that sort of thing. It'll do us good, make up for wasted time. Hey, want to see me tempt fate?" Deadpool cleared his throat. "What's the worst that could happen?" The close woodland around them became heavy and mauve. The shadow was close now, and the feeble sunlight had turned the heavy clouds crimson as the sun slunk below the horizon.

Slade stood up straight. He was alert, tightly coiled, straining for a sound, eye darting hither and yon, trying to fix on movement.

Deadpool leaned casually against the jeep. "Relax. I did it ironically. I think we're safe."

A deep roar cut the air, a predatory howl that echoed through the cold glades. Twilight enclosed them. In the dark thickets nearby, something massive was moving closer.

"This is totally not my fault."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where to start? So many references, from Worm, to Venture Bros, to Captain Underpants. It's a bit like a 'Where's Wally' page (or Waldo, to avoid transatlantic confusion), all the references hinting at the interconnected world where all sorts of stories are happening, or at least, that's the intention. If you're wondering who all these people are, look them up and open a comic-book. Who knows, you might even be entertained.
> 
> Also, this is the point where Slade and Deadpool's banter really starts improving, at least in my opinion.


	6. Chapter 6

The temperature began to drop sharply as night set in. Somewhere, a twig broke and leaves rustled. The distant calls echoed again. Boughs shook, shivering leaves. saplings splintered. It sounded as though a tank was shouldering in from the outer woods. A dreadful, blubbering roar whooped out of the dark.

The Wendigo curse was laid down long before recorded history, afflicting anybody who resorts to cannibalism. But once it had a carrier, it spread. Every decade or so they had to be culled, or they'd become too powerful and rampage, slaughtering and consuming everything they found, devouring entire cities. This was a big one, an old one who'd probably never been human. It's fur was white and shaggy, although it was so matted by filth and viscera it was almost impossible to tell. Bones sharpened it's face into a confusion of misshapen angles, and a mass of slavering fangs the size and shape of chisels. The rest of it's twisted frame bulged with knots of muscle. Even it's claws and teeth showed an unnatural health. They gleamed in the dark like seasoned ivory. It's chest was wide as an elephants, although the ribcage beneath it had obviously been shattered and badly reset, time after time. But for all the broken symmetry of it's hunch-backed build, the thing moved with an eery grace.

They could smell it, smell the rancid sweat-stink of its mass, smell the sour blood and meat rotting in it's vast maw. It growled again, holding itself low so that it could get a good look at it's prey, then let out a deafening, trumpeting roar, exhaling bad air and blood vapour in a mighty gust.

Deadpool stared at the Wendigo as it lopes slowly towards them, closing the distance deceptively fast. "I have a plan." he announced boldly. "Don't make any sudden moves until I say. Then you step forward and try to befriend it, and I'll run."

Slade grinned beneath his mask, and stepped back to the car, groping about. "What are you talking about? This is better than Christmas!"

It charged them then, bounding forward on four limbs as often as two, thundering like an elephant.

Slade found his gun, turned, and opened fire in a single, smooth movement.

"Wow, it sure is lucky that your arms dealer was having his semi-annual, lazy story-telling, free instant delivery deal." Wade said from the sidelines. "No, wait, I tell a lie, we got these guns and explosives from Savage. Gee, it was so much easier when I had my thought captions to keep track of things and I didn't have to say everything aloud."

Conventional weaponry had not kept up with genetic engineering. That was a fact of life. These days, for the fights that really mattered, the soldier mattered more then the equipment, yet ironically post-humans tended to be impossible to secure a steady supply of. While there were more post-humans every week, most of the factors that led to their creation were not replicable, as much a result of circumstance as human understanding, and those who did come up with something that could be used to destroy an entire city, inevitably found that the only market for them were, for the most part, people mad enough to want to attack someone who could push over a sky-scraper. There were exceptions, the scottish armsdealer Destro had a roaring trade in the sort of black market firepower for anyone determined enough to take on the more extreme metahuman, inbetween stealing his competitors technology and selling it to terrorists, and provoking wars to sell technology to both sides of the conflict, but most people kept things conventional. An ordinary kinetic weapon was nice, but Slade was as dedicated to being well-armed as he was to keeping in shape. Which was why what he pulled out was entirely custom-built and one-of-a-kind. It was big, and bore a passing resemblance to a snub-nosed Sub-Machine gun. Except it was three times the size, had three clips, and fired proportionately sized bullets.

Nitro express cartridge with a velocity of two thousand F.P.S and a striking energy of four tons. It would drill through Kevlar like it wasn't there. A clip of seventy, and a rate of ten bullets a second. There was little that could withstand that sort of firepower. Unfortunately, what he was fighting was such a creature. Certainly, the monster's flesh tore, burst and exploded. Grave wounds ripped across it's torso and upper arms, and two deep dents appeared in it's forehead.

But it didn't seem to care. It didn't even seem to notice. It just kept up it's loping charge, smashing towards the mercenary, coming through the woods like an avalanche.

The thing brought it's arms down on Slade, giving him nowhere to go. Blocking would have broken bones, but he knew he could place his hands on the inside of it's massive wrists and roll its hits away. It's jaws snapped at him, and when he hit it with the butt of the gun it closed around it, ripping the gun from his hands and shearing through the steel with ease.

Apparently, it wasn't going to make it easy for him. He drove his fist into where it's kidney should be, and felt as though he'd just tried to put his hand through a bank vault, breaking a few of the bones in the process.

It batted at him again, and Slade ducked under it, one of the Wendigo's huge paws, claws extended, whistling over his head and missing him by inches. It was fast and strong, but fought entirely by instinct. It was so fast and strong, that it had never had to learn how to really fight. Slade drew the desert eagle he wore at his hip, and fired every shot into the side of the monster's skull as he backed away, hitting it in O ring every time. The thing didn't even feel them, they bounced off it's skin without so much as a scratch to show for it. They really built them sturdy up here.

Shaking it's large, sloping head, the Wendigo turned to look at him with it's glinting, piggy eyes.

Clip out. Another in his pocket. Half a second to load, not that it made a bit of difference. Small arms fire wasn't going to do a thing, besides waste ammunition. He knew it, but he kept it up anyway, if only to keep it's attention focussed on him. This time he went for the eyes. It irritated them and shook it, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

The thing lifted itself to it's full height, rearing up, raising an arm so thick, so corded with muscle that one blow would pulp every bone in his body. It fixed it's gaze on him, It's eyes red and swollen but still quite usable, then brought it's fist smashing down in a clumsy but deceptively quick move. Slade waited until the last moment, then dived aside, turning it into a tightly controlled roll and back on his feet in a moment. The ground shook a little at the impact, and the monster scooped up a bucket of mud from where he'd been standing moments before. It roared again, a raging, phlegmy rattle, this time in frustration, then glared at him again.

Slade opened fire, the bullets slamming into its throat. Heavy, hard, a serious and sustained assault. He might as well be hurling insults for all the good it was doing, but he kept it up. Any moment now…

Deadpool suddenly appeared in midair behind the Wendigo, propelled by a jump that must have required a run up. He seemed to hang suspended for a moment, frozen in place, before landing astride it's hunched back with a grunt of effort, and grabbing hold of it's mane with his free hand for purchase. The monster shook and buckled, trying to shake the man off it's broad back. But Deadpool clung on, and drove the sword into it. It wasn't an ordinary sword, one of the two he usually carried around, which was just as well. No matter how fine, an ordinary blade would have done nothing at all, except maybe shatter on the monsters ridiculously durable and sturdy body. No matter how sharp, they wouldn't have been sharp enough.

But this was a special sword, one of two weapons they'd been given to kill a man who had so far proven unkillable. This was the previous property of a mutant called Scott Summers, entrusted to him by Wolverine, and acquired with some difficulty by Vandal Savage, and entrusted to the two of them. The amplified blade was magical in nature, monomolecular, and cut cleanly into the monster's body. If he'd hit the backbone Wade was sure he'd have severed it, and chances are he'd have killed or crippled the beast. Unfortunately, he didn't quite manage that.

The Wendigo let out a mournful wail of pain that shook it's entire body, then turned back to find out what had hurt it so. A copious amount of black, stinking blood gushed out of the deep punctures that Wade had put in it's back.

Deadpool hung on for dear life to the handle of his sword, flapping around as it shook itself, trying to dislodge the source of it's pain. Then he let go as it slammed it's back against a tree, splintering the trunk and knocking it over with a groan of tortured wood, and driving the sword even deeper into it's body, as Wade let go and slipped through it's legs with sensational agility. He bopped and weaved as it flailed, hurling insults and non-sequiturs, then one of it's arms clipped him, sending him flying to smack wetly against another tree with an audible crunch of breaking bone.

"Hurts…" He let out, his chest appearing deflated as his broken rib had punctured a lung.

The beast opened it's mouth. The stink hit him like a body-slam. It was going to lunge forward, a biting strike. Wade was almost immortal, but he was petty sure when those huge killing jaws snapped forward and closed it would be lights out forever.

"Kiss me, Harvey. Or maybe kismet, whatever works for you." He said, figuring at least his last words would be memorable if a little derivative, then blinked, as it abruptly flailed, and fell hard on it's face, as if it had tipped as well. It landed so suddenly that it's lower jaw smashed into the loam and slammed it's gaping mouth shut. It had come down less then a meter from Wade's outstretched feet.

It wasn't even slightly dead. It thrashed and roared, reaching with it's huge arms, its maw snapping and slicing the air. Deadpool scrambled backwards out of reach, and fumbled for his gun. Why had it fallen down? Why the hell had it fallen down?

And why in the name of Jack Kirby had it's roaring, bellowing sound become so wretched, so shrill, so in pain?

Before he could try to get his thoughts straight, the Wendigo heaved itself again in a mighty surge, rising on massive arms, muscles bulging, veins prominent like cables. Curds of foam glistened on it's drawn lips. It lunged at Deadpool.

Deadpool finally got his pistol out of the holster, and fired into it's gullet, watching as silver darts punctured the ribbed, pink roof of it's mouth. He realised belatedly that he'd grabbed the wrong one. It was loaded with tranquillisers. Admittedly, darts fired with the sort of force that could crack an engine block, but not much use in this instance.

He dropped the gun, and gave up, resigning himself to reforming inside a digestive tract, when the Wendigo quivered, spasmed, convulsed, and then fell over on it's side with a jolt that seemed to rock the ground.

An almost silence fell. The only noise was the last tremulous breathes rattling phlegmatically in and out, before it gave a last gurgle, then stopped. It was dead. Really dead, it would probably be hard to be more dead without special training.

Slade switched off his quarterstaff, both ends stopping the menacing glow they had exhibited when he'd driven it into the base of it's skull and cut of it's vertebrae, and stepped out from behind it, reaching down and hauling Deadpool to his feet.

"OK, how come you killed it and I just made it mad? And why did you wait so long to intervene? It could have killed me!"

"I killed it first, didn't I?" Slade replied. "Before it chomped on you."

"And how did you do that? I used the magic sword and it only got pissed off."

"Not the weapon. It's how you use it."

"Oh, very mature. Going to take out your dick and measure that too?"

Slade ignored the profanity. Wade fell silent, as he realized he'd just articulated a profanity, rather then the usual collection on meaningless symbols. "It's just an animal. It has anatomy, and so it has weakness. It has hamstrings, so I cut them. It has a spine, so I cut it off. It wasn't vulnerable to a direct attack, so I hit it where it was weak. You know, rather then hack at it's center-mass."

"Yeah, yeah, save it for the next apprentice." Deadpool says, his body already more or less back in working order, if you called what he had working. The Cancer would kill him, and the Healing factor would overwhelm him and kill him as it rampaged out-of control through the vital systems of his body, and the only reason neither had yet was because they were too busy fighting each other to actually finish the job, if anything disturbed that, he'd die. As long as nothing did, he'd survive anything. "You know, I didn't have to save you. I was going to just teleport away, but then I remembered I wanted to see how my new sword works."

"Not bad, I'd say." Slade replied, pulling the blade out of it's back. Thick, dark blood squirted out, hitting Slade like a pressure hose. Even covered in blood and gore, the sword gleamed. It had punctured a kidney, Slade noted. The thing would have died eventually from Deadpools blow, if given long enough. He handed it back to Wade, then turned to the Wendigo to make sure it wasn't getting up. Apparently, frying it's nervous system had done the trick. It's wounds weren't closing, though given the steady rate of blood loss, it's heart was still beating, which shouldn't be possible. Then again, it was a magical creature. Who knew with them? Perhaps it would eventually get back up.

"So, a Sasquatch you reckon? Or a wendigo?"

"What do you mean?"

"There was an episode of the Discovery Channel on the difference. Wendigos eat people, Sasquatchs avoid people taking photographs, or something."

"Well, it tried to eat you, so my money is on wendigo." Slade spat on it's corpse, then hefted his staff meaningfully. "Waste of time." He said, disappointed at how unsatisfying the diversion had been, then trudged back to the car, and looked down at the engine, which had cooled long since. Then he closed the hood, walked into the seat, and tried again.

The jeep made a nasty grinding sound, then roared to life. The engine sounded decidedly unhealthy, but it was running.

"Well that's convenient. Apparently, us trapped in the wilderness isn't interesting once we've done some with the violence, so things are being arranged to move along. This medium really doesn't do periods of waiting between periods of excitement so well."

Slade ignored that, because it sounded like Wade was talking to his imaginary friends again. Wade continued addressing the readers who always followed him around everywhere, wanting to observe his life. Shameless hero worship.

"Now that we got the side story out of the way, lets go find and kill Wolverine, and you can tell me why this is so important to you."

"I told you to drop it." Slade growled.

"And I ignored you. Duh."


	7. Chapter 7

The man was short and compact, a half a head shorter than average and wiry rather then sturdy despite his broad shoulders. His skin was naturally pale but long since burned nut brown by sun and time, and he had a squashed, mean face that put one in mind of a fox, a sloping forehead and a broken nose, and plenty of attitude, which, along with his natural roughness, gave him looks that were a real hit with many wilder ladies. His hair in particular was distinctive, big and tall on the sides coming up to brush points in a devilish manner, and he favoured a prominent pair of side-burns that grew in a wiry, course thicket along both sides of his face. He wore a pare of faded jeans, a leather coat, and old well-broken in cowboy boots. A throwback from the look of him, like a neanderthal that had against all probability survived and thrived in the twenty first century. The motorbike out the front was his, one of them at least. This was that sort of place.

The 'Crocodile Bar and Grill' was one of seven commercial buildings in the town, though that might be too strong a word for a cluster of prefabricated, identical terrace houses, a small lumbermill that pulped wood, and an oil refinery. Their certainly wasn't much in the way of community or society beyond a certain working-class solidarity and shared occupation. If you wanted to work, you could find it here, but there were little in the way of luxury, it was as far on the outskirts of civilisation as anywhere in this hemisphere. Which is why he was visiting. He preferred to live away from humanity, though he had been having dreams of Japan, and felt a strange ache that told him to go back to one of the few homes he'd known in a life that had, in many ways, been far too long. His life had been ugly, brutal and unending, but before he joined the X-men most of his happiest memories had been in Japan. Maybe, when he was ready to be a person again, he would go back, but for now he just wanted to be alone, and this was a good place to do that.

Logan had always been a wild, natural personality that liked women and to gamble, drink, smoke and fight. But in spite of that, and seemingly in contrast, he aspired to a dignity and high degree of honour, derived from his own interpretation of the samurai code of Bushido. While in part a brutal, ruthless fighter, Wolverine had mellowed somewhat over the years. He had made a definite effort to subdue the 'beast' side of his mind, although he still found it in him when he called on it. This conflict all added up to a certain degree of self-loathing, due to his past and perceived value as a killer, which had really been letting him have it lately. He was a loner, through and through. Being on his own was the thing he'd needed.

Felicia wasn't doing so well, in their shared self-imposed exile. She was a city girl, born and bred, and while at first life in the wilderness had interested her due to the sheer novelty value, she was a girl who liked her creature comforts, and was beginning to get miserable. What she wanted and what he wanted were very different, and while he was dangerous enough to keep her addiction to living on the edge under control, she wasn't happy on the edge of civilisation, where there were no clubs, no ready avenues of socialisation, nothing to steal or flirt with, and the VIP treatment was running water and a roof over your head, and she was more or less completely dependent on him for everything. As a result she was beginning to get snappish and withdrawn, and he as beginning to fear that he was in the midst of yet another relationship that wasn't going to work out.

He still wasn't altogether sure what attracted him to her. Well, aside from the obvious. He cared for her, and they had fun together. Her enthusiasm and carefree spirit were appealing to him, as was the fact that she was independent enough to take care of herself, and the fact that such a ravishingly beautiful woman and fantastic in the sack was more than contributing as well, but the two of them fitted together badly, and were too different in their wants to keep it up for long. An amicable split might be best. Don't bring love into it, not after all you've been through, just accept that you're being selfish, and only holding onto her because she's the only person that you have left, and you don't want to be alone.

Let the girl go, and you got plenty more time to feel sorry for yourself before you finally get a life, and when you do crave company (like you do now, like you do every few months) you can show up here, to drink, and to feel like a stranger.

But he wasn't, not really. Alone in a crowd, he still could tell more about these people, about their lives and their habits than all but their closest acquaintances. You could tell a lot about a man by their scent, if your senses were as advanced as Wolverines. His nose was so sensitive he could track a trail a week dead trail under fresh fallen snow, if he gave it his best - when he was in built environment he had to keep a cheroot lit non-stop, or it felt as though his nose was getting pummeled by twenty million scents, and that was no lie. But sometimes finding a faint trail was easier then distinguishing specifics from a multitude. Humans were always a cacophony on their own, each one detailing their past as surely as any tell. Some were always present, usually soap, stale sweat, and mint, along with the distinctive smell of humanity, all mixed together with the other lingering odours that clung to them, each one a reminder of some part of their life. And beneath that, there was where they were from and who they were. Experiences and feelings had their own distinctive odours. The man pouring his drinks, for example, had a scent of good, oiled hide.

Almost everyone else stank of fire ash and flint, bone dust and chemicals and mineral dust. They worked on the refinery, turning crude oil into gasoline, and it had left it's mark on them, even if they didn't know it. Others smelled of resin sap and mould, lumberjacks and saw-mill workers. And a few others, of hard, good steel. There were fifty in the bar, it being the only source of entertainment in a town of six hundred. And he could tell you everything about them, where they'd been, what they did, what they were trying to hide, whether they were nervous or happy or scared out of their minds, and where they'd come from, just with a single sniff.

He sniffed again as the door opened and a blast of cold hair hit his back. Now, there were two more scents mingling in the air, one who stank of machine oil and blood, the other like stale decay, of a sickness that he recognised as cancer, the disease that rots. The latter was so overwhelming even the ordinary people could sense it. Wolverine knew that scent. Only one man was walking around smelling like that, anyone else would be long dead.

"Not you." He groaned, not turning around. Only one man had cancer at that advanced a state and was still walking, unwelcome wherever he went. The red-headed stepchild of the superhero world.

"Hello, Hugh Jackman! It sure is nice of you to cameo in my movie that is about me." Deadpool said, prompting Wolverine to groan again. He didn't want to deal with this. Not now. Not ever. "And incidentally, it was ten times better then any of yours! The cast has great chemistry, the sets are really well done, and the girl I got to make it with was -"

"Lets get on with it." The voice was cold and rigid. He didn't recognise it. And he knew almost everyone in the game. "I've been driving fourteen hours without a break, so I want to skip ahead to the fight. So reign in the banter."

"Rightyo, Willy." Wolverine looked up. He'd just realised who the other was, the one who smelled like the Taskmaster. It made as much sense as anything. The two had a long shared history, and he'd been going through a lot of that lately. He'd wondered when he'd get around to this.

"Don't call me that." Slade Wilson said.

"Bro? Slade?"

"Not acceptable. We're working."

"You're not the police of me! Anyway, Deathstroke sounds so nineties." Deadpool whined. "I'm not even going to comment on 'The Terminator'. Former Governor of California, you ain't." There was a smooth sound of oiled steel scraping lightly against on oiled steel, and suddenly Deadpool was focused and on the job and all business. "Anyway, attention all random people in this scene! We are dangerous lunatics who are, needless to say, out of our minds! Anyone not out of this place by the time I draw my weapons and start firing them indiscriminately will get killed to show just how dangerous I am, most likely in a gratuitous and gory fashion to attempt to wring emotion from a jaded audience, and display just how awesome I am without losing any valuable characters who sell comics. You have until the pre-fight banter comes to an end to get out of here. Over to you, brother. Do something cool."

This was not Slade's preferred style at all. He had to take a prisoner, Wolverine would take time and effort to kill, but he would have preferred to take his target out from half a mile back with a dark rifle, then move in. Failing that, if contact was absolutely necessary, a series of thumb jabs to the nerve cluster at the base of the neck would be his chosen modus operandi. Quiet as a whisper. To Slade, the ideal fight was one that your opponent didn't even know about, although he rarely got to do that.

But that wouldn't do any good against a regenerator. He'd get back up before you'd even finished. Even something like a high-powered explosive detonated at close range would only slow him down. The only way to do it was to kill him and keep him dead, overwhelm him before his abilities could bring him back, then restrain him in such a way he couldn't get back out. Which meant getting in close and getting your hands dirty. And Slade could do that too, and had done time and time again. And in this instance, he was actually looking forward to it.

"Well that's just adorable." Wolverine said, turning to look at the two of them, as the rest of the patrons exited the premises. Police would be called, but their weren't any law enforcement in a tiny place like this. By the time they'd mobilised and actually arrived in a position to do something, both the Brothers Wilson and their target would be long gone, one way or another. "Family outing, is it?"

"Something like that." Slade replied, folding his arms across his broad chest. The mask was half black and half copper with a single eye, the costume all layers of leather and kevlar and chain-mail well-fitted so as not to inhibit movement, the arsenal considerable. He hadn't drawn any of his dozen weapons slung on his back and clipped to his belt, but one only had to glance at him to tell he was spoiling for a fight. This wasn't just a job. This was something that had been festering in him for more than four decades, ready to let out, all at once. And once he began striking, he wasn't going to be able to stop.

Which was just fine with Wolverine. That was the sort of fight he enjoyed. "I keep telling people. I'm the best there is at what I do." Wolverine boasted, the bravado hiding a keen gaze. Slade's movements were curt, their exactness reflecting his intensity and the precision of his methodology. He depended on knowing the steps ahead of time. Wolverine would have to see how he did with some improv. He grinned, showing his sharp canines, his claws sliding out with an audible _snikt_ as he did, and even in the low light they gleamed. "Well lets see what you got, bub. Come at me."

Slade's face shifted beneath the mask. He took his hands out of his pockets like Bruce Lee, and smiled like Lee Van Cleef. "Thought you'd never ask."


	8. Chapter 8

"So both at once, or one at a time, bub?" Wolverine said, stepping away from his chair, lowering his centre of gravity and spreading his arms, waiting for an opening. You don't just charge a man as good as Slade unless you have back-up, or he's distracted. Slade was faster then him, just as skilled, and he could probably crush Logan's neck in one hand.

"Hey, if we're not getting paid, then what's in it for me? No money, no Deadpool." Wade folded his arms and smirked. His face seemed more misshapen than usual, as though it had been made by a child out of clay, without the benefit of tools, or of skill. "There is no honour, without dollars, American. I'm pretty sure Shakespeare said that - maybe Hemmingway or Nietzche, maybe Churchill or one of the writers for the Simpsons. Somebody quotable. I'll just hold-back, take a few pictures, and make cutting comments now and again to remind everyone I'm here." He paused, side-tracked by questionable logic. "Because if I don't, there'll be no reason for me to be in the scene. And then I won't exist." He paused again. "Besides, my own cunning plan to take him out was fiated. What I'm trying to say here is that you're on your own."

Slade smirked as well, ignoring his brothers tangential prattling. "Hardly seems sporting. Perhaps I should tie one hand behind my back." he said, cold, calculated, yet patronising.

Wolverine came forward swinging. Time to put himself the test. Wolverine had never fought Slade before, and wasn't entirely sure what his weak point was—he was all armour and solid muscle—so he went for the usual failsafe: the face. There was a mask, but his claws would go right through it and out the other side.

He should have seen the return blow coming. Slade leaned back out of the way, the claws whistling harmlessly past, then did something with his feet, shifting his weight before he countered. The hard fist smashing into his face caught Wolverine off-guard and he stumbled back several feet before losing his balance completely and landing roughly on his rear, an embarrassing blunder in any fight, but even more humiliating now.

"Get up." Slade said plainly, adjusting his stance minutely, yet somehow endeavouring to seem relaxed and contemptuous. It was a gift.

Fuming, the cannuk roughneck scrambled to his feet. his inner equilibrium barely stabilised before he crouched low and began to circle his prey like a hunter on safari. Not for one second did Slade take his eye off of his formidable opponent, but Slade made no moves of his own, seemingly content to watch. Running out of patience, Wolverine leapt at his adversary with an angry, frustrated growl, baring his sharp teeth.

His rush at the mercenary was doomed from the start. Slade easily side-stepped the most dangerous mutant in the world's strikes, then countered with a single kick to his back that knocked him off his feet again, flat onto his face. "This time get your balance first. You're embarrassing me." he goaded, adjusting his stance again. Wolverine clambered to his feet and lowered himself, only to find that Slade wasn't playing defensively anymore.

Slade was on Wolverine before the former X-man he had a chance to react, slamming his hard fists into the smaller mutant. A thumb jabbed at his neck, going for the pressure-points, while his knee drove up like a piston between Wolverine's legs. Wolverine felt the agony, but he felt it the way he knew it was night outside. It was undeniable, but it didn't meaningfully effect him very much. He only grimaced and resolved not to let that happen again.

Slade lashed out twice more, and Wolverine could barely match the blows, stumbling backwards with every impact while Slade moved around his claws as though they weren't there. He was hit three more times, then he managed to catch Slade's fist in his hand, stepping closer so that he could feel the mercenary's breath sting his face, and drove his claws at Slade's throat. Slade twisted his arm, breaking the mutant's grip, turned aside the claws with his other hand, and even as Wolverine struggled to reassert dominance, he surged forwards, with a dizzying combination of high left, to the temple, a savage low right, to the kidney, and a devastating second left in the centre of his face, flattening his nose like a pancake with a spray of blood and cartilage, leaving only a pulpy mess where once had been Wolverine's face. He'd be fine. His features were already pushing itself back into shape, but to Slade the violence was immensely satisfying.

Slade spun and kicked downwards, his heel snapping the links between ligament and bone beneath the knee, sending Wolverine staggering and stumbling and swaying away, barely able to keep upright. He staggered back out of reach, and wheezed, a bit more theatrically then necessary. "Gotta hand it to you, bub." Wolverine panted. "You been eating your spinach. Don't think legs are supposed to bend that way."

Slade didn't say a word. He just advanced, fists raised, single eye narrowed. Wolverine came in low, weaving like a boxer, feinting left then coming in hard right. Slade caught his wrist with a grip like steel pincers, and seemingly without any effort lifted all of Wolverine's two hundred and seventy pounds (all metal and muscle and gristle) over his head, then tossed him clear over the bar, through the serving window, into the kitchen, where he landed on the big flat grill. The cook hadn't turned it off, he'd just left. Steam squealed up as the hot metal flash-seared his skin. Wolverine howled, flopping and jerking until he rolled to the floor in a smoking heap.

Wolverine picked himself up, and got his feet underneath him, taking a few breaths before stepping back into the bar where Slade was waiting patiently and calmly. But this time he wasn't waiting. No sooner had he stepped through the doorway then Slade waded in, suddenly exploding into brutal, astonishing action. His economy of movement was both lethal and almost hypnotic, there was a cruel precision in the punches and kicks as they came, hard and fast. It was all Logan could do to ward off the first few. He threw up his claws desperately but it made no difference at all.

There was no time to speak, or even to think, because he was too focused on avoiding those knuckles coming at his face, or that boot about to stomp down on his back. He knew that he was being an idiot, trying to match Deathstroke's skills. He needed to stop trying to think of a strategy, and let the animal take over. His instincts could handle this, but he wasn't being given a chance to do more than act—

Something awoke in Wolverine then. Something fierce and primal and unwilling to give up, not willing to just lie down and take his beating. _'Enough. Stop this. Let your conscious mind go limp. It's only getting in your way. You don't need it. Your instincts can handle this. Use the claws. Go for broke. Just enjoy yourself. No time or space for anything fancy, just -'_

He staggered back again, but this time he didn't lose his balance. He didn't fall. He only bared his teeth, backed off for a moment. The two paced around each other like prowling tigers, then Slade moved I, and Wolverine attacked back, harder. _'Use the claws. He can hit you as much as he likes, you'll get right back up again. No matter how hard, how painful it might be, there's nothing he can do to keep you down. Because he's just a killer, and you're the most dangerous man alive.'_

Wolverine was finally hitting his stride, and was a blur. He attacked wildly but craftily, leaving himself opening and taking advantage of every opportunity, bending back, leaping in, feinting, thrusting, not bothering with defence but constantly striking trying to overwhelm his opponents immaculate defences. He spun, attempting to slash into the meat of Slade's legs with his spare hand while Slade held his right, then when Slade leapt back he sprung from his spot with all six claws aimed forward and at the Mercenary's chest. But Slade had never lost his balance, he leapt eight feet in the air and Wolverine sailed beneath him to crunch into the wall. Recovering quickly, Wolverine flipped up and landed on his feet, but Slade was ready for him again, and sent him staggering back with a well-placed kick.

Slade remained cold, calculating, scintillant. He made no waste of movement, no motion not absolutely necessary, now forced onto the defensive but with no hesitation or so much as a momentary lapse. Indeed he seemed almost content. But no matter how hard Wolverine pushed himself, Slade was always faster, stronger, a dozen steps ahead. His skills were incredible, a perfect rhythm to everything Wolverine had to offer. Indeed, he barely even seemed to be trying.

Then he lowered his hand a fraction too late, a minute accident but the only one he'd made, and what Wolverine had been desperately waiting for. Swinging in, one of Wolverine's claws ripped across his chest-plate and into the softer flesh beneath. It was only a glancing blow, but it did send Slade back a step. Before Wolverine could capitalise on that, Slade skipped back, regained his balance and lowered his arms. Then he glanced down at the cuts.

"There he is. I was starting to worry you were going to disappoint me." He sounded pleased and of good cheer, now that he had three bleeding cuts on his chest. The fight had lasted barely three minutes including the banter, but it felt like far longer to both of them. "That there was nothing left of you. It took you a while, but you showed me otherwise. Now, let's see what you have to show for it."

Slade stepped back again, pulling off his mask, and stretched out his right hand. Wolverine tensed. Deadpool rolled his eyes.

"Quit playing around, or you're off the team, and you'll have to give back your badge and discount card." Deadpool said, then gestured at his brother. "Hey, look. Blood. You're actually bleeding. I can see it. Which means, we're not censored. Which means, anything goes. So why don't you take one of those nice weapons you always have, and actually use one of them? This scene needs some explosions!"

"Good suggestion." Slade replied, then reached behind his shoulder and pulled at the handle of something silver. Wolverine tensed, expecting a gun (bullets couldn't kill him, or at least they hadn't yet, but they certainly hurt), and so was surprised to see that it was a sword. Not the usual, short hacking blade Deathstroke favoured in close-quarters, more suitable for butchery then marital arts, this was something else, something altogether different. This was a long, fine piece of Japanese steel that had been shaped by a master to a deadly blending of purpose. The Muramasa Blade. He'd know it anywhere.

Shiny and very, very sharp. Bright enough to throw his own shocked expression back at him. Sharp enough to slice through adamantine. Sharp enough to even kill him.

"Where did you get that?" Wolverine breathed, suddenly very conscious of his heart pounding in his chest. "Tell me what this is about."

"No. %&#$ off, Beta Male." Slade replied simply. He didn't brandish the weapon. That's not what it was for, it was for killing or, failing that, maiming - he had no spiritual oneness with the blade - it was just a weapon in his arsenal, one of dozens, but - maybe - the one for the job.

Wolverine snarled like an animal - classic posturing. "Tell me what this is about, and you walk away with a flesh wound." He growled.

"Mister greasy canadian pedophile is threatening me? Oh this is rich." Slade chuckled softly to himself, then slowly walked forward, the sword held loosely in his right hand so that the tip of the blade scraped along the ground as he advanced, cutting into the wooden floorboards and leaving a long scar behind him. "But why not answer? This is about you. You've lived too long, and made too many enemies. Some of them have toys like this, and know men like me."

"Scott wouldn't -"

Deadpool rolled his eyes, in a manner that was perhaps just a little jealous that one dangerous psycho was accepted as a part of the superhero community and he wasn't - at best he was tolerated, and that on a good day. "Fearless leader doesn't even know it's gone, though how he can resist using something like this I'll never know, given the number of reasons you've probably given him over the years. Now why aren't you fighting?" He shook his head. "Or are you going to wax philosophical about your respective burdens, duties and obligations and eat up our time? Because people hate that when the characters start doing that sort of thing, particularly when they could be fighting for no adequately explained reason. Nobody reads the words, but they like it when the men in bright primary coloured costumes hit each other, preferably with big sound-effects." Although now that he thought about it, there was a lack of ludicrous sound-effects in this story, bar that one ' _snikt_ ' when they first got here. He wasn't sure he was comfortable with that.

"Nah." Slade said. "If I wanted to talk, I'd have called him. I'm here to murder him. Wade? If you're not going to fight, do something useful. Do I see a jukebox over there?"

Deadpool nodded once, slowly. That feeling he wasn't the craziest man in the room had come back, and with a vengeance. "I suppose so. Impressively retro, perhaps there's a local hipster crowd they want to pander towards. Any preferences?"

"Springsteen." Slade said, tossing him a quarter.

"Of course." Deadpool muttered, catching it without looking, and walking over to the machine.  'Born in the USA' began playing, as loud as the machine could go, as Slade walked the last few paces to bring himself into range. Slade swung the blade in a fierce crescent that Wolverine threw himself out of the way from. Snatches of his reflection—flashes of expression, faded blue of his jeans and deep earth tones of his jacket darted across the surface of the thin, deadly blade when it slashed up at him. Before Slade could bring it to bare again, he tossed himself at the mercenary, bringing two fistfuls of claws at his kidneys. Too slow. Always too slow. Slade stepped aside, letting him stagger past, and then cut into the meat of his back, shearing through muscle an inch deep, from left shoulder to right hip.

Blood gushed, and muscular action didn't close the wound. Slade's mask shifted again, as Wolverine made a grunting noise and turned. The mercenary was smiling viciously.

Slade whipped the blade four times so fast it looked like one movement that you'd have missed if you blinked, leaving Wolverine's clothes and skin red with the blood that oozed from cuts on cheek, breast, arm and thigh. Cuts that were not closing. They'd be worse, except Slade was toying with him. He enjoyed it too much to want it to stop and be over. He stepped back, giving Wolverine room, and rested the blade on his shoulder. The pose was casual, but the tension in his shoulders was not. He was trying to lure Wolverine into doing something stupid.

Wolverine was not taking the bait. Not anymore. Not since Slade raised the stakes, and put death on the line. Instead, he was watching every movement Slade made, no matter how minuscule, in case it was the precursor for an attack. He wouldn't be caught off-guard. Slade simply kept the blade where it was, occasionally striking out with the speed of a striking snake, cutting him superficially then returning it to place just as fast. With the reach the sword afforded and his considerable skill, Slade was free to attack with impunity, and all Wolverine could do was try and minimise the damage by dodging. It wasn't working out all that well for him. In a melee, the claws were invaluable. But here they were barely better then nothing. He backed away, but Slade kept pace with him.

Wolverine threw a stool at him. Slade stepped around it without missing a step.

Wolverine threw a table at him with a heave of his shoulders. Slade cut it in half, both pieces falling by either side of him, still not missing a beat, then replaced the sword on his shoulder.

"Savage offered me money for this. I wouldn't take it." There was a blur, and a hot sting above his left eye, and suddenly blood was dripping from Wolverine's forehead all over his face from a long gash. "And he's just the only one who came to me. Some people have offered quite a considerable bit more over the years to other people. You've made a lot of people very angry, James." He feinted with the sword, Wolverine throwing up his hands in anticipation of a blow that didn't come, then brought it between the two of them, hefting the sword and switching it from right hand to left hand and back again. He moved up onto his toes, then rocked back on his heels.

"But to me, you're not worth anything but the pleasure I get from this." Slade feinted again, and when Wolverine closed in he put his shoulder behind a straight cross with his empty hand, hitting Wolverine in the solar plexus and making him choke and gasp for air as he almost swallowed his tongue. Slade then punched him in the mouth, cracking six teeth and dislocating a jaw, bruising his knuckles in the process. An adamantine skeleton and a near-instant healing factor made that sort of violence less then effective, but Slade was too stubborn to stop it just because it hurt him a lot more then it hurt Wolverine. He stepped back as Wolverine righted himself, and waved the sword threateningly, forcing him to back down.

"Because when I volunteered for Weapon X, I thought I was going to be a hero, not another murderer on a government payroll. Thought I was going to be Captain America. I learned better pretty fast, and got smart. See, a country isn't worth working for, nor are the idiots who inhabit it. They want something done, they should fight themselves rather then wait to be saved… but you…"

"Well, you're selfish, like me. Difference is, you were Weapon X, even if I was the first person they worked on. Thanks to you, thanks to your messed up genetic material, my brother is now a maniac who doesn't know who he is half the time because he can't see the world through his own delusions." Slade cut him again. A line across the chest, ragged and deep. "Which makes you ultimately responsible, and if it wasn't for you, one way or another Wade would still be himself."

"Talk to your therapist." Wolverine spat, lunging low.

"Oh don't worry about my mental health. Now that you're in front of me, I have a pretty good opportunity to vent." Slade said, moving his foot out of the way, then cutting him again. The chin. It would have been the throat, but Wolverine had ducked fast enough - just - not to die.

"Whoah! Lets slow down here. It's good to know you care and all, sometimes I have my doubts, but leave me out of this." Wade said, in an unusually quiet voice, holding up his hands, although neither was paying attention. "I'm pretty happy the way I am. You probably think I'm mad, but it feels good to me."

Neither of them reacted. Slade was too busy milking the fight for all it was worth, and Wolverine was too busy trying to stay alive. Wolverine, given his powers, his reputation and his fighting style, didn't make a habit of running from fights. Normally there wasn't any need. But he knew hopeless when he saw it. Any moment now, Slade was going to run out of things to say, and take his head off. And that would be that. It wasn't that he was outclassed, exactly (he was brutally honest enough to admit Slade was better than him, but that didn't bother him much - so were a lot of people) it was simply that this fight favored Slade, his brand of martial arts to start with, then he got the sword and Wolverine didn't. Slade had all the advantages. Which meant he had to escape. His bike was still out the front, if he could get to it, then the wilderness would swallow him up. And if the two hired killers tried to follow, then it would swallow them up as well. Here, the ball was in Slade's court, the mercenary had a clear target and all the weaponry he could want. But in the wilds, things would be more even. Out of civilisation he wouldn't even see Wolverine coming, and all his fancy skills and weapons would only get in his way.

The problem was actually getting away. Slade was between him and the exit, and the only thing that he knew about which could definitely kill him was between him and Slade. He tried circling around, and got a shallow cut on his upper bicep for his trouble. It was odd, his wounds weren't healing, and he was bleeding heavily, but if he felt the ebb of his powers, an immanent collapse brought about by blood-loss, his body wasn't showing it beyond numbness and pain. But that could change any moment. He didn't want to go down here, unable to even fight back.

Then Slade lunged, going for the kill. The move was hurried and left an opening. It was his second mistake, and once again it was all Wolverine needed. Throwing himself forward, he darted into Slade's swing, twisting aside at the last second. it was a risky manoeuvre, but it was so unexpected Slade was momentarily put off balance, and Wolverine got away with only another jagged cut across the chest as he slipped past. Fortunately, there was no earthly use for the male nipple, as his right one was now a mess of badly lacerated flesh and pounding agony. Turning his staggering momentum in a running start, he darted for the door, making a break for it. He expected to hear the thump of boots behind him, or smell the sharp discharge of gunpowder. But there was nothing. They weren't pursuing. He didn't stop and consider why, he just leapt for his bike, kicked it to life, and roared up the road.


	9. Chapter 9

Wade rounded on his brother, who was standing in the middle of the room, completely unconcerned. His chest was clotting, forming a scab over the cuts and his body language was relaxed as he tossed the sword aside like a litterbug tossing an empty can, walked over to the bar, and poured himself a couple of fingers of whiskey.

Deadpool could only watch. He didn't know if he was angry, or worried that he was in the presence of a man madder then he, or what he was seeing, but his brother was acting positively bizarre and out of character, and he was sick of this secret agenda he refused to talk about. Maybe they'd had a change of writers who just didn't get Slade's character, or wanted to rewrite him as a jazz critic or something. It had happened to him a few times. Hell, it had happened to everyone, as far as he could tell. "You let him get away. You let him. Get away. What the hell are you doing?" Wade asked. "I mean, I figured he'd get away, but not because you let him. What game are you playing?"

Slade looked at him blankly. "It glanced off his spine on the first cut I made. It might wound him and keep him wounded, but it doesn't cut through adamantine. I was bluffing the entire time."

Deadpool blinked, thrown off the scent for a moment, then shook his head. Nope, he still smelled a rat. "No. You were not. So you can't cut his head off. Big deal. You can hit any major artery, stab him in the kidney, cut his throat, or just keep on going until he's mince. You don't need to cut bone to kill a man, and I shouldn't have to tell you that." He folded his arms. "That last lunge was the sloppiest thing I've ever seen. You have to try to slip-up so badly."

"Japanese steel isn't exactly my weapon of choice, Wade." Slade said, rolling his eye.

"Spare me. You could have won with a piece of rebar, much less an actual weapon."

It was a curious fact of their association that while Wade brought out the best in Deathstroke, Slade brought out the worst in Deadpool. In each others company, Slade relaxed and his affable side rose to prominence. But Deadpool suppressed his better nature in an effort not to be left behind.

Slade remained blank at the highly accurate point. "Maybe. But I would have had to get close. Then he could retaliate. Wounded, cornered animals bring down their hunters before they realise they're dead. I have no interest in dying with him, particularly when I have a few more irons in the fire."

"And I suppose you're going to drag me along." Deadpool had remained on subject a record number of sentences, and felt his mind wandering back into the more comfortable avenues of spontaneity. "Yeah, right. You know, Wolverine doesn't actually have a healing factor. None of us do. Americans are just easily impressed by a universal healthcare system." He folds his arms, as he remembers the other reason he's angry. He's not hugely thrilled by what Slade said about him. "Though why he calls it that… what do you call your ability to regenerate?"

Slade blinked. "My ability to regenerate?"

"Exactly! Who calls it a factor? Who describes anything they can do as a 'factor? Idiots, that's who. Huh, I'll use my 'tall factor' to reach the jar at the top of the shelf. Better use my 'breathing factor' to oxygenate my blood to keep from passing out. Better use my 'basic english factor' to communicate these incredibly obvious concepts to my brother. So what's the plan now? Let him get away?"

"Yes." Slade bared his teeth under the mask. "Timing wasn't right. He'll run. We'll catch him."

"Did you at least put a tracer or something on him that we can track as a signal?"

"No."

"Damnit, you're heading into amateur hour now! Why not?"

Slade finally turned to look at him. He did so slowly, as if it was an act he performed only rarely, and at great physical effort. Deadpool halfway expected to hear gears grinding in his thick neck. "Because I renegotiated the terms of the contract. I get to do it the way I want to. Sportsmanlike, I suppose you could call it. Man-to-man." Slade rolled his shoulders. "I want to run him down. I want him scared and running as hard as he can, so hard his heart can't keep up with his legs. Then I want to kill him." he said, and then turned his head back to its original position again, just as slowly.

Wade opened his mouth to reply, then got distracted.

Deadpool thought about Logan, about the times the two of them had worked together in Weapon X, in the bad old days. The strange blend of feral man-beast, the wise old man, and the metal-clad killing machine all wrapped into a stocky frame. Now, they were mortal enemies - well, Slade seemed sold on that idea, at least, and a part of Deadpool, a big part, was with him on that. Killing Wolverine - as plans go, you can't get much better then that - and he had plenty of reasons himself. Time changed everything. Except for the Wolverine, of course. "Sure that he'll run? Don't think that might be a bit of an ego thing? Seems more his style to set up an ambush and get even."

"It is. But he has a squeeze here. He has an instinct to protect, and animals always listen to their instincts - even when they shouldn't. So he'll run." Slade picked the up sword, and replaced it in it's sheath, not bothering to clean the blood off, then handed it back to Deadpool. "Just not fast enough. Or smart enough either."

"Right. And you'll cure me?" It was a pointed question.

"If it can be done without making things worse, I'll find a way. You deserve better, Wade."

Wade tilted his head. This was as sensitive and nurturing as his brother got, and by his standards it was great progress, but Wade wasn't entirely happy to know decisions were being made about him behind his back. "You never asked me if I want to go back to being your alternate company equivalent. And you were planning on telling me when?"

"I told you just now, didn't I?"

"So what, this is about some kind of validation? You dragged me all the way here for that?"

"Do you want to say no to Vandal Savage?" Slade didn't wait for a reply, he left the empty taproom, heading for where they'd left the jeep in the middle of the street.

Deadpool stepped infront of him, blocking his exit. "I'm going to ask a question. And you're going to be honest. Or we'll never talk again."

Slade quashed the unkind remark that came to mind, then forcibly relaxed himself. "Ask."

"Are you and Wolverine secretly best friends?"

Slade gaped. He had heard the expression, of course, but he really, truly was speechless. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"'Cause this is just the sort of thing that people who are secretly best friends do. I know the formula, I've seen John Wick." Deadpool continued. "You couldn't refuse the contract without blowing your cover, so you make a big razzamatazz about taking it, bring me along so you have a witness who will say you did your best, then let him go and slyly pass information so he can go after Savage himself. Then when he wins the fight you throw up your hands, make some regretful noises, then the two of you meet for drinks somewhere you won't be recognised (maybe a pirate convention), probably with him wearing that stupid eyepatch as a disguise, drink beers and laugh. Is that what I'm missing here?"

"Are you coming?" Slade asked, walking past him.

"Do I have a choice?" Deadpool muttered, following.

Walking to the open back of the jeep, he unslung a massive silver gun, close to a high-powered rifle if built on a much bigger scale, and began to load it with his other trump card (and if this one didn't work he'd have to get inventive). Carbonadium-adamantine alloy bullets. They'd switch off all a bodies systems, including even the most advanced healing factor, until the metal naturally broke down, usually in about three hours, at which point it was rendered it harmless and dissolved it's component elements. But by bonding it with an indestructible substance… Well, chances are Wolverine would fossilise before his systems started again, if they ever did. Slade had tried magic, but it was unreliable. Fortunately, he wasn't a purist. He was happy to utilise both sides of the board, an equal opportunity sort of assassin. Now, he'd try science.

"You want to be paid? There. Full clip. Every bullet you don't fire is a hundred thousand dollars worth of adamantine." Slade said, handing his brother the gun, who sagged a bit under it's weight. They didn't all have a reinforced muscular structure that let them power-lift about 2000 pounds.

"Yeah, to who? Who with a hundred thousand dollars to burn decides to spend it on a useless tiny piece of metal? Somehow I don't think anyone will accept it, unless it's loaded into a gun that's pointed at them. And if I did that, well why bother throwing away such an expensive bullet, when they'd probably be just as receptive to a normal one?"

"Try some dangerously unstable maniac who wants to take over the world. There's enough of them around." Slade suggested.

Wade conceded the point with a nod. "Alright, I suppose that works. And most of them are rich from all the banks they rob with their trillion dollar hardware and post-space-age technology. Good call." he clapped his hands. "So, given the direct approach didn't do much more then waste the special effect budget on complex choreography, what do we do next?"

"The subtle approach."

"Subtle isn't really you're thing, mister 'Deathstroke the Terminator. I mean seriously, redundant much?"

"Says the man in a ladybug costume. Clint Eastwood you’re not.”

“Ha. Looked that one up, did you? Well, if the pot could keep what he thinks about the kettle to himself," Deadpool replied airily "we can try and come to terms with the unfortunate name you possess. I'll say it again, Deathstroke the Terminator. What, didn't like the ring of 'Switchblade McStab-blood-death, too subtle and sophisticated for your tastes?' You know, don't quote me but I think that back then, Killgrave wasn't even taken."

"You need a moniker in this line of work. It's a business asset." Slade responded. "Deadpool."

"My name is _tres ironic_ , completely different." Deadpool replied. "Seriously, Deathstroke the terminator. What the hell is up with that? You know what sounds menacing? Slade. That's a name an evil genius can respect. You should just go by your first name, instead of trying for threatening." He paused. "Or hell. Captain Slade. Why not? You actually made captain, you know." Deadpool pouted. He'd wanted to be 'Captain Deadpool', but didn't merit the title, and while he might kill with impunity, kidnap, possess illegal objects, weapons and substances, endanger people and commit assault, battery and slander, in a few memorable occasions treason, even vandalism, as well as a list of other felonies that came about from his line of work, even use the occasional profanity, he drew the line at impersonating an officer.

Some things were just not done.

"Two things. First -I made it to major by the time I got a dishonourable discharge between me and my rank." Slade replied. "And Major Slade doesn't do a thing for me."

"So buy a boat!"

"Second, I didn't actually pick the title, you realise."

"OK, I agree that major is lame. It's practically a desk job. And who joins the army for a desk job? As for the rest, I understand that ultimately it's the fault of some over-enthusiastic government suit, or some writer who thinks adjectives are edgy, but this industry is a thing where rebranding can be successful. Though not often."

"Too late to change now."

"You need to start branching out into new things."

"I'm an old dog. I'll stick with the tricks I got." Slade turned the key, and the engine grumbled to life. "Time to hunt. You're paid. Coming this time?"

"Haiku isn't really my thing. Try and pad your sentences with a few subject nouns and tenses, oh mighty warrior poet."

Slade rolled his eye, and started up the truck. Wolverine had a head-start, but they had scoped out the territory before the confrontation. They already knew where he was heading. He wouldn't get far.

"Now, when we catch him, just don't do anything that will compromise our newly formed family values assassination image." Deadpool warned. "No torture, or maiming, or letting him go to dwell on the shame of his defeat, or making him watch you kill his girlfriend first, or whatever. Just kill him."

"Wade, all I want is to see him dead. I don't care in the slightest whether he suffers or not." Slade lied as he pulled onto the highway.

And if Deadpool noticed, he let it go this time.


	10. Chapter 10

You wouldn’t know it looking at him, he didn't live like it anymore than he acted like it, but Wolverine was actually very wealthy, a long life, a dozen fortunes he'd won and with few needs he could certainly settle comfortably down.

But he'd wanted to get away from the trappings of civilisation and the problems that came with it. So he'd come back here. He’d thought he’d gotten free, and he’d come to Alaska to bury myself in a bottle and to choke himself on whiskey and tobacco.

But he’d dragged it with him.

The house had sentimental value. Once he’d even called it home, though he couldn’t think of it that way anymore. It was also the site of his single worst memory. The big cabin looked very innocent; quiet, windows dark, and nestled between soft drifts of fluffy snow. The white powder coated the roof and window ledges of the cabin as well. A chill, icy wind buffeted the structure lifting flakes into the air, and rustled the branches of the green pines dotting the otherwise empty field around it. It was built in a shallow depression, out of sight unless you knew what you were looking for.

It was a log cabin styled house, large and yet reserved, a comfortable retreat from the cold. There were three long leather couches in the area and several glass and wooden tables by their corners while a small table stood behind him. A long dining table with a closed window frame, and a large fire was burning in the grey stone fireplace. He looked up at the stuffed heads of his various prizes and sighed before turning back to the fire. He wanted to collapse. There was perhaps enough blood left in him to keep a small kitten alive, and he could barely keep his head straight.

It would be so easy to succumb. To just slide down, let himself drift off and only wake when it was all over. But he took the hard way, like he always did. He didn’t know any other.

You could beat him, you could toss him around, but that was all you could do. He was Wolverine. And he never gave up. Ever.

Behind him, he could hear the wind hitting the side of the house and he could see closed windows keeping it out. Above, the roof crisscrossed and from it's centre, a chandelier made out of deer antlers hung from a iron chain. The floor was mostly bare and wooden, but the area in front of the fireplace was carpeted, a bear skin rug. The bear had surprised him and Silver Fox long ago, at a picnic, and he hadn't messed the pelt up too badly with his claws. Now he was bleeding all over it. The bear probably felt some small measure of satisfaction at this, and he supposed he couldn't blame it.

He wasn’t entirely defenceless. There were locks on all the doors and windows, and keypads in the corners of the room. He'd had made this place a fortress, by the standards of this isolated part of the world. Bad memories had made that a priority.

But it wouldn't keep Slade out. Not for a heartbeat. It wouldn't keep his less competent but annoyingly persistent brother away either. And he could fight the two of them again, but that hadn’t worked out so well for him.

He was going to have to run.

He didn't like it, but it was the right move. Retreat, heal, fight again on his own terms, not on Slade’s. That was the smart approach. That was the right approach. For all the fighting he'd done, he'd run a lot more.

His eyes fell, in a movement that would almost be natural if he hadn't been doing all he could not to stare out of habit, at the small stand above the hearth, where rested all he had to remember the woman who had, on consideration, most likely been the closest thing he had to the love of his life.

But not, in the end, his wife.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing hard, as other old memories surfaced. He realised that out all the places he had been, and all the women he had known, the ones that shined the most in his thoughts now were in a far off, tranquil place, where he had a chance to be something else. A chance he'd missed, by bad luck or bad judgement - in the end who could tell?

Logan leaned back, looking upside down at the Daisho resting in its place. The smaller wakizashi sword was excellent of its type, razor-sharp and about a foot and half long in a gentle curve. It was, however, a modern work, less than eighty years old, and had only seen a single war.

The katana slumbering in its sheath above the smaller companion sword was another story entirely.

The Yashida Clan sword was a miracle of metallurgy, one of the first of it's kind, a Masamune original, forged by Japan’s legendary swordsmith, and nearly six hundred years older then Christ.

Logan carried blades inside his arms that were sharper, and far tougher, but the sword upon his mantle was a work of art, complete in regards to its purpose. It had been given to him as a sign of Mariko’s favor. It had been taken away for similar reasons. And in time, he'd stolen it - partly so as to remember her, partly because, well it had seemed the thing to do.

Giving it to him had rested the physical honour of Clan Yashida quite literally in his hands. The sword was the living symbol of all the extended family’s honour, and giving it over to Logan’s guardianship, an outlander of no blood, had been almost unimaginable.

It had meant he had her love, her trust. And he'd ruined it all, like he'd ruined everything he touched, all to somehow end up here. Running again.

He wanted to fight, he realised, with a sigh. Wanted to turn around and give Slade everything he had. Why not? What did he have to lose?

He wondered how he had gotten so old, when he seemed to always act so damn stupid.

He'd run from every home he'd ever had. Everyone who'd ever loved him. From who he hoped to be, from who he had been, and who he feared he was. And he was thinking of making a stand? Here?

No.

Because if he threw everything he had at Slade, he'd come up wanting. You want to win the big fights, the important ones, the ones that matter, you have to do more then just give it your best.

He heard the movement, smelled her hair and her skin.

“Didn’t think you were coming back until late.” She said, with a yawn.

"Felicia?"

“Last time I checked.” He’d caught her napping (it wasn’t that late, but then, she didn’t have much to do), she was wearing a distractingly slight sweater and a scarf, and still had a kind of careless glamour that seemed too perfect without the benefits of a design studio. But then, Felicia Hardy was a beautiful woman, features sculpted by good genetics, with only a little discreet surgery - and he'd finally convinced her to lose the overabundance of facial cosmetics that, to Wolverine's mind, only detracted from her natural perfection. Just beneath her hair, long and white in tresses as smooth as silk, he could make out a number of fine wires trailing from her scalp - the modifications made to her for her powers. 

For a moment he tensed, then relaxed. "You should get your coat." He said, a bit harsher then he intended.

She was a spontaneous sort of girl, not one given to introspection or planning. He could barely tell how it happened, how the two of them had found themselves living together in the wilderness for two months. It was only supposed to be a casual thing, afterall, they'd both felt lonely, where was the harm in keeping each other company some nights, sometimes? Somehow, it had become this unhealthy mess of a relationship. He wondered which of them was using the other more, but supposed it didn't matter. They were both consenting adults, and as being between places went this wasn't all that bad. Just…

"Aren't you awful surly tonight? I thought we were past all this." She purred, a deep vibration in the back of her throat that he hadn't know humans could make before he met her, and moved closer, swinging her hips a touch more then necessary. She was trying hard, for her own benefit more than his, he expected. She was used to being fantasised about, to being admired and desired by everyone she met, and out here she was alone. Still, he appreciated it. He didn't know a red-blooded man who wouldn't. "Actually, I was planning on an early night tonight, and since you're back you could join me."

He sighed. "I mean we're leaving. Or we're in trouble."

She sighed, and folded her arms under her breasts. "You're serious?"

"Yes. Anything you want to pack?"

"Nothing." She sighed, and rolled her eyes, a touch exaggeratedly for his benefit, then flounced back the way she'd come. She returned half a heart-beat later all bundled up in an immense mink fur coat that covered her head to toe (trailing on the ground a little behind her). "Lets get going then, we might find our way to something like civilisation if we move quickly."

"Just a moment." It took more effort then it should have, to force his wounded body to stagger down the hallway and into the room he slept in. But he needed to do one more thing in order to feel like himself. He was in costume less often than other people in this line of work, but he'd brought it even if he was going into partial retirement. Didn't feel right not to have it along - it would have almost been like leaving himself behind. He pulled on a yellow full-body spandex suit with blue shorts, boots, shoulders and gloves, a red belt and a yellow headpiece with large black 'ears', which only left his muscular arms uncovered. Three metallic pieces on both hands clipped into place to serve as channels for his claws if he needed to let them out.

He still felt sore. His head still swayed, his vision wavered, and he really needed a sleep. But now, they were just problems to be overcome. He turned, and made his way back outside, heading for his motorbike. He'd have to backtrack as far as route 73, but then he could follow the open road wherever he wanted. Next time he'd be more careful. He wouldn't be found again unless he wanted to be. Until he was ready to be.

Slade had talked enough, and Wolverine had been listening. Vandal Savage had put a hit on him. He'd crossed the immortal before, a few times, but recently… It didn't matter. The man had made a big mistake. Shortly, he'd get shown just how big.

He swung a leg over the bike, and revved it a few times. The lithe woman all bundled up in animal fur clad woman with flowing ivory hair leaped onto the bike behind him. "You know," she said, lacing her arms around his chest from behind him. He could feel her firm breasts press up against his back and felt a little aroused at the prospect. "All this racing and secrecy is enough to get all the adrenaline pumping… get a person all worked up. You worked up?"

Her hands started to trace the definition of his chest and abs, but he pushed them off. "Yeah. Never can resist you. But we can't be distracted. Not now. If either of them find us, then things'll get really ugly really quickly. It's Deadpool and Deathstroke, working for Vandal Savage."

She raised one delicate eyebrow. "Danger as well. Exciting. You do know how to show a girl a good time."

"That's really distracting." He said, revving the engine and driving back up the way he'd come.

"Kinda the idea, big boy."

He didn't remove her hand. He was too busy steering. "Time and a place."

“You’ve been doing it wrong all this time.” She pouted, then stopped all at once, as a chill crept down her spine. There was a figure standing on the road ahead, too distant to make any details, yet somehow unmistakable in spite of that.

"Contact." Slade stood in the centre of the road waiting for them, humming Creedence Clearwater Revival's 'Run through the Jungle' under his breath. His rifle was held in his hands, and he'd taken his mask off. This time, he didn't bother with the physical confrontation, the fight, the slow build-up to the kill. He'd already scratched that particular itch. This was the next part, after the hunt and fight were done. He braced the rifles stock solidly against his shoulder, keeping his arms loose, narrowed his eye as he took careful aim, then put his finger on the trigger. It was a heavily customised weapon - by technical definition, the Browning M2 was a massive, one-hundred-forty-pound semi-automatic rifle, but it was hard to think of it as anything except a cannon. Normally they were mounted on Humvees, helicopters, or aircraft carriers. It could fire non-stop for three and a half minutes, with an effective range just shy of two miles. As he had told his brother, the bullets it was currently loaded with were worth a hundred thousand dollars each, and with a fire rate of 25 every second, It cost thirty million dollars to fire the weapon for twelve seconds. But rapid-fire was for people who missed. Slade wouldn't need more then one.

Wolverine made a tight turn most stunt drivers wouldn't dream of attempting, without even slowing the vehicle down, and headed back the way he'd came, hoping for some tree-cover. Too little, too late.

Range accurate to within a quarter of a millimeter for a mile. No wind or other factors that mattered, nothing to throw him off his game or distract him. Wolverine wasn't a distant target, he was a clear one, with no cover or other mitigating factors. No need to account for acceleration, he was driving in a direct manner, punishing the engine for all it was worth. Things couldn't be better. Slade's finger tightened on the trigger but he didn't pull it yet, double-checking all the motions in one micro-second, then as satisfied as he could be with his shot, he fired. The gun spat fire, and he felt the world come crashing back, but his eyesight and concentration were uncanny. In the space between the tic of a second his eye following the bullet as it sped across the distance to his target, traveling more then a kilometre a second and outracing it's own sonic boom. Wolverine's back was turned, but he had no compunction killing a fleeing enemy. He watched as Wolverine spasmed as the bullet hammered into his body, Right in the sweet spot where the Medula meets the spine, the bike wavering, wobbling alarmingly then skidding as he lost control and crashing into a tree. Black Cat leapt clear. Wolverine did not. He was slumped to the ground, pinned under the twisted remains of his bike.

"Game to Deathstroke." Slade said, and got back in his jeep.


	11. Chapter 11

Felicia shook her head as she got to her feet, none the worse for wear from the collision, more due to skill then from luck. She'd leapt at the last possible moment and turned her dive into a roll, losing the suicidal momentum and springing back to her feet without a scratch on her - though the thickness of her expensive (and now ruined) coat had more to do with that then all those years practicing urban parkour. But despite her save, the prospect remained bleak.

Moving the motorcycle was not a proposition, she was fearsomely fit and far stronger then one would expect at first glance, but the bike was a heavy machine, and was on fire thanks to the tank cracking open. With Wolverine trapped under it, she was on her own.

And not for the first time in the last two months, she was very aware how much she didn't want to be here.

It wasn't fair to blame anyone else for her problems, but she wished she'd never listened to Nightwing, and taken Ted Grant up on his offer to teach her how to fight better. Or better yet, that she'd never listened to Nightwing or Spider-Man, and let them convince  her to turn over a new leaf and reinvent herself - and then like a prize sap gone and decided to make the hero thing more permanent then just 'following a boy' (well, a few boys, all of which were not only gorgeous, but uncommonly flexible).

She couldn't ask for assistance, or better still one of the dozen or so acquaintances she had in New York, no, she'd decided she wouldn't settle for less then the best. Wildcat, Ted Grant, the only Heavy-weight boxer to successfully defend the title of world champion for a grand-total of twenty-three consecutive years, all but undefeated the entire time, a man who'd set world records that still hadn't been broken. He'd finally ceded the title to Mohammed Ali, and mostly retired, at least from the sport, taking on a role as a mentor figure to a series of proteges, all of whom had achieved great things on their own - if not necessarily in regards to competitive boxing.

And so she'd resolved to learn from him, as generations of martial artists have, and they'd had a brief affair (the age difference didn't bother her, he'd held up well), which had been spectacularly fulfilling before she broke it off, and then she'd gone into personal security, private detectoring and anything else that was good for a thrill. She'd been too good a thief to need to worry about money anymore. And if she'd just had the sense to spend some of her ill-gotten loot going to the Caribbean or something instead of taking an opportunity to go with Wolverine, then things would be better.

The whole thing with Wolverine was ridiculous.

She had a type - that much wasn't a mystery. Edgy 'goodguys'. Spider-Man. Nightwing. Spider-Man again, only with the added Parker baggage. Nightwing again - no extra baggage thank you very much. Young, confident, boyishly charming and good-looking - and flexible. So what was she doing, playing against type? First Thomas Fireheart, or Puma if you preferred, then Ted Grant, and now Wolverine, all of whom were certainly attractive enough - if that was what you went for (which she usually didn't), but none of who ticked the right boxes at all.

And then circumstances had conspired against her, and she'd needed to get out of New York now that Fisk had muscled back into power and was looking to put her head on his wall and feed the rest of her to some dogs, and unlikely circumstances had forced them to into an equally unlikely partnership, and some time in the wilderness retreat had seemed like a good idea, particularly if Wolverine was willing to sexually pleasure her - he wasn't attractive exactly, but there was nonetheless something compelling, something dangerous about him that excited her. Story of her life, that: 'It seemed like a good idea - or at least an exciting one - at the time'.

Just yesterday, she'd been bored out of her mind, halfway stir-crazy and suspecting she was going mad. There was nothing to do in Alaska, as far as she could tell, and as for Wolverine - well, it had been fun, but the bloom was very much off the rose after the first month, and she'd had a whole new appreciation for how good she'd had it when she only had to see him when she wanted to, instead of every day. Now, that almost looked good by comparison, a few minutes excitement, and now this, more then she could handle. She looked up at Deathstroke as he got out of the jeep and casually walked her way, the high-powered, custom rifle resting on his shoulder casually. Deathstroke. A fair contender for the finest assassin in the world. Before going legitimate, or at least using her talents for good, Felicia had hung out with the worst crowd that would have her then - but she'd never met him before. He tended more the mass-murder then the steal from the rich for thrills and kicks.

"That'll do, pig. Kept on expecting to have to step in and save your arse, but you had it all your own way." Deadpool was saying as he got out as well. "I just want you to know you've done. it. You've finally earned my respect."

Slade didn't reply. He only had eye for one person. Wolverine's legs and left arm were buried under the bike, the flesh mangled and ripped, and showing no signs of growing back. His right arm was free, but from his twisted position he had no chance of levering the wreckage off himself, and he couldn't do much more then glare. Anyone else wouldn't have even been able to do that much.

Slade's voice was not how Felicia imagined it at all. It wasn't gruff or harsh. It was calm, collected, and cool enough to make her feel more chilled than the snow she'd landed in. "So, which consolidation prize is this?" He mocked in his dry way, indicating her as though she was a trophy rather then a person. "She looks a bit like Storm, only not quite so womanly-figured. Of course, even the real Storm is still only next best to Jean Grey, and no doubt Marvel Girl reminded you of someone else who turned out to be out of your league as well. Bit sad, really. You know, she's not a fraction of your age. You could have great-grand-daughters older then her." He leaned close. "What's it say about you that you feel most at home around kids? How long before you come sniffing after Rachel Grey?"

"Ha! Burn! Now whose the creepy one fixated on much too young women?" Deadpool piped in. "The Wilson family is shown to better by comparison once again!"

"Like I care…"

"Oh, you don't want to banter?" Slade cut him off. "That's fine, I'll get on with it then."

Kicking snow into Wolverine's open mouth to keep him quiet, Slade turned to stare at the Cat-burgler. "As for you, Wilson Fisk would pay me more money then either of us have ever seen before for your head. And twice that, if the rest of your body was attached." He looked at her thoughtfully. This matter of Wolverine had skewed his priorities and standards somewhat. He had a deep, personal hatred for Nightwing developed over the years to something that gnawed at his heart like a cancer, that made him do stupid things like go for the hurt rather then the heart, to try and punish him rather then more pragmatic solutions, and it would be tempting, so very tempting to use her against him. He considered mailing Jump City her ears followed by her fingers one at a time and watching Batman's first protege go crazy for a highly enjoyable moment, then, with difficulty, dismissed it. He had other priorities for the moment. That would be fun for another day. "But I don't have time for the hassle. So why don't you just run off. Today, I have other concerns."

Felicia got to her feet, and flexed her fingers. "You think I'm going to let you just kill him?" She asked incredulously, bending her legs and getting ready to spring.

Slade looked at her thoughtfully a moment, then conceded her point with a nod. Then he shot her in the knee, or tried to. Thanks to the most unlikely of chance, the well oiled slide caught, and the gun jammed. Bad luck powers had never been so welcome. She tilted her head, let out a relieved sigh, and darted forward with a well-aimed kick.

Slade leaned out of the way with a frustrated sound, and slung the weapon back into place as he bent around her vicious strikes - movements so minimal that he hardly seemed to move, then cracked his knuckles. "Well, since it would be a shame to murder such a pretty girl -" It wasn't much of an opening, a slightly over-extended swipe with her right hand. There was a blur, and she slumped, Slade's hand pressed almost gently to the side of her neck "You should take a long sleep."

Wade nudged the unconscious body with the toe of his boot, then nudged his brother with his elbow. "Dibs."

"Don't be disgusting."

"Disgusting? Oh. Ohhhh. No. Not like that. No, I wouldn't force her to do anything, or drug her, or pressure her or blackmail her or anything like that. What do you take me for? Some kind of savage? Shame on you." He shook his head, more vigorously then necessary. "Shame. After I defended you when nobody else would. No, I'd just keep her locked in my apartment, completely dependent on me for everything, and I'd be stern but fair, and over a few days she'd really get to know the real me, see a sensitive, vulnerable side. Then we'd talk a bit, and then we'd start to bond, and then she'd start to open up and even to smile, and then I'd start to confess things about myself I'd never told anyone else, and -"

"Stockholm Syndrome's not really any less distasteful then overt rape, Wade." Slade replied. "Possibly worse."

Wade bristled. "Then why is Beauty and the Beast a kid's movie, and part of an even bigger cash-cow franchise then me?" He folded his arms. "Anyway, I left the sexual overtones as subtext, you're the one that went and addressed them."

Slade shrugged. "Double standards about attractive women?"

"No, I think we're supposed to call that fanservice. Besides, I'm happily married."

"I thought you said you were a swinger."

"Actually we call it an open relationship, because getting her up to date on modern days is hard enough that trying to explain the sixties would be a lesson in futility."

Slade sighed. He wasn't going to win here. "It's all irrelevant. We're leaving her."

"Right. Because leaving her skimpily dressed in the snow miles from shelter is far more humane then imprisonment in my apartment, and possibly marriage to the world's most eligible former-bachelor." He paused. "I'd have to become a mormon or something, move to utah, but there's no price to high for tail like that."

"She'll probably survive. And we don't have room in the jeep for a fourth passenger. Or even a third, really. So nothing we can do, ergo not my problem."

"And if she does survive, she'll get back to civilisation and tell everyone it was us."

"On foot?"

"Even so. Don't know if you've ever heard of wide-coverage cells, given how much effort you put into avoiding people, but it isn't as hard to get into touch with people as it used to be."

"I suppose so. But we'll be done by then, so who cares? With the weekly problems they go through, who has time for revenge? Think of it as free advertising and plenty of publicity."

"And what happened to anonymity? You know, not getting caught? Not having guys who can bench-press planets or kill us with their brain and happen to like the guy we killed coming after us looking for revenge? We should kill her."

"Alright then. Do it." Slade conceded.

Wade looked at her for a moment. He'd killed plenty of people, but there seemed something repellent about killing an unarmed, beautiful girl while she was unconscious. It wasn't as though she'd done anything wrong as such (to him, she'd done plenty to everyone else), and he wasn't entirely convinced his plan couldn't still be pulled off, and she was a popular character who the writers probably would want later… "Well… when I say we, I mean you."

"Go on. Kill her. Stuff her in a fridge. It's traditional."

Deadpool gave him a truly disgusted look, then conceded his point with bad grace. "Don't make this my problem."

"It is your problem - because you are the one that cares."

"Since when do you turn down opportunities to kill someone anyway?"

"Not unless I have a contract. I don't kill for free."

"Unless it's Wolverine."

"Right." Slade agreed. He kicked some more snow onto the mutant's face as he did. "Or Green Arrow, or Nightwing. Technically I have an open contract on those two, however." He added, not fooling anyone, even himself.

"And you don't pick up set bounties, you need to be contacted directly."

"As a rule. Why waste time with nickle and dime stuff?" Slade said, adjusting his straps to be a bit more comfortable.

"You're aware we're in yet another recession, the economies practically in the toilet, and here you are turning down good paying work? And our only chance to make an honest profit our of this?"

"You know I know all that, right?" Slade replied. "Besides, we'll make plenty for the rest of the mutants."

"Doesn't she have nine lives or something anyway?"

"What?"

"Guess who I'm talking about. Try. Go on. Could it be the girl you just knocked out?"

Slade scratched his chin. "Not sure. Why do you think that?"

"The costume, mostly. Seriously, cat themes always go with the nine lives thing. Haven't you noticed that?"

"Not really."

"One eye doesn't mean you get to be less observant. Particularly not now that you're not even bothering to keep this quiet."

"I'd like to keep this under wraps, but that possibility was never reasonably practical, so we just have to make the best of it. Let her tell anyone she wants anything she likes - what's she know, really?." Slade replied.

"What do we know, really? All we got are a list of targets."

"And all we need are alibi's and body-bags."

Deadpool swooned. "That might be the coolest thing anyone has ever said to me." He breathed, fanning his chest. "That was just… wow, I think… just give me a moment." Finally, he straightened. "I'll stop whining about the pay thing, that was so cool that the job is worth it. But other then that, seriously, you're loco, brother." Deadpool said. "So lets say we do. Then what? You think we can just go back to our lives?"

Slade wasn't paying attention. He walked over to Wolverine, and rested his heavy boot on his right wrist. "Still trying to get up and win? You have an over-developed sense of your own capabilities if you think you can turn this one around. You've lost." He ground his boot down on Wolverine's hand. Wolverine didn't feel more then a vague discomfort, his bones were adamntium after-all. "I beat you." Slade said, removing his boot and placing it on Wolverine's throat, then pressing down until he started to choke. Black spots danced as his vision went dim. The last thing he saw was Slade leaning close. "Deal with it."


	12. Chapter 12

His brother was happy. Deadpool could tell.

It wouldn't be readily apparent to the inexperienced eye, Slade wasn't one for obvious signs of contentment or pleasure. You'd never see him jumping for joy, or cheering, or even smiling much, he didn't allow himself the distraction. Slade held a frightening grip over his emotions, a skill he’d mastered between the ages of twelve and thirteen, when he had stopped allowing his father to hit either of them, by way of starting to hit the man back - and then, when that hadn’t worked, learning how to do it properly. He certainly did not allow emotions to rule his behaviour, ever (or at least, he told himself he didn't). Instead, he channelled them as fuel for his actions. But Deadpool had known him far too long for the stoic facade to have any effect, and saw right through him.

Deadpool hoped that his brothers state of mind was a good sign. But both his head voices were somewhat doubtful, and he found remaining optimistic in regards to that difficult in the extreme. "So you're done, then? No more of this craziness? All out of your system?"

Slade didn't take his eye off the highway. They'd left the wilderness for the outskirts of a city, and were now merging with other roads heading the same way. "We've only just started the job, Wade. Now comes the hard part."

"Yeah, but you'll go back to being your ordinary self now, right? I mean, seriously, I've only ever seen you get this worked up by Green Arrow." And Nightwing, though that went without saying. The once potential protege had managed to indirectly be involved in the death of Slade's oldest son, and then utterly ruin his relationship with Rose and Jericho (to be fair, Slade was largely culpable there as well, but he didn't see it that way so it was a bad idea to bring it up), then had said no to Slade's offer. Slade would spend the rest of the time allotted to him working tirelessly to destroy Nightwing out of compulsion.

"That's professional." Slade justified.

Deadpool scoffed, loudly.

"Mostly professional." Slade amended. "I just have an issue in regards to him."

"Yes you do. You certainly do. First you get all melodramatic and use flowery words and swear vengeance for something or another that probably never even happened, then you start talking to imaginary people and trying to create an army in your image, until finally I have to calm you down before you start trying to destroy cities and otherwise act like a low-rent domestic terrorist."

"I just don't like that he's been handed everything I've worked so hard for."

"You mean you're jealous." Deadpool accused mercilessly.

Slade didn't dignify that with a response. "Yes." He said at last.

"Yes what? Yes you agree with me?"

"Yes, I've got it all out of my system. I've won, that's that, I can cross that off my to-do list. Of course, we still need to make sure he stays dead, but that's besides the point." He sighed. "Not that it was particularly satisfying, but what can you do."

Deadpool rolled his eyes. "Brother, maybe you forget some times, because you _are_ you, but you are one scary mother-% &#$er. If you'd given Wolverine a month to get ready, it still would have gone more or less the same way."

"I suppose." Slade reached for his phone.

"Hey, watch it, you're driving! You're setting a terrible example for anyone watching you." Slade didn't listen to his entreaty to consider the consequences someone mimicking him might arrive at. Who would be watching him, anyway? The phone he picked up was a disposable, one of several disposables he had active when on the job. This one connected him to one person and one person only, and after it was done it would be permanently discarded.

It took four rings before his contact picked up, instead of the usual two. "Speaking." Came the reply at the other end. He didn't bother to introduce himself, as if it would be anyone else. Christian Wolff was a money guy, the money guy, whom many organizations turned to for hiding and manipulating their finances. Every villain, terrorist, thief, mobster or whatever who managed something like success needed one to preserve their ill-gotten gains, and in Slade's case it was put the money into a off-shore holding account that couldn't be found, but where he couldn't access it whenever he needed to. That was what he needed an accountant for.

"Ten million." Slade said, as though saying too much to the man would contaminate him. "You have three days. Cash money." He hung up without another word. Even by his standards, that was brusque.

"Ten million dollars." Deadpool whistled. "That's a lot of Nike sneakers." He said, hoping his endorsement would net him a couple of bucks. "We celebrating or something?"

"We'll need a team." Slade said. "Specialists and professionals."

"Afraid the X-Men will bounce us like a check for your alimony?"

"On our own? Definitely." Slade replied. "I could take maybe ten. Leaving the rest for you. That's not great odds."

"Never tell me the odds!" Deadpool pumped a fist. Then paused and considered. "Though yeah, seriously, I could take a few, but not all at once." He paused and considered again. "So what, you call your accountant? Weak."

"I can afford it."

"That's not the point! I'm not letting you do this! It's reprehensible! An insult to all team-ups ever!"

Slade's eyebrows lifted fractionally. "What are you talking about?"

"The proper way to do a team-up - and yes, I'm aware it's not really your scene mr Ron Perlman on Steroids - is a rhythm I perfected. First, I decide on a couple of superheroes, more or less at random, loudly insert myself into their lives, ignore their repeated entreaties to go away, act very clingy and needy like the worst sort of fan, ignore everything up to and including physical violence, and continue to hang around until something interesting happens. Then, by contrived circumstances usually brought about by incompetence, I save the day, at which point I say my farewells and leave to go find another adventure, because I'm cool like that."

Slade's eyebrows approached his hairline. "And that works?"

"You wouldn't think so, but yeah, pretty much. Sometimes I even make team-ups retroactively happen."

"Huh." Slade paused. "I don't suppose you could get me a team-up with a few people? I've always wanted to work for Elijah Price."

"He's an art dealer, who would he want killed? And he couldn't afford you" Deadpool sighs.

"True, but he doesn't &#%$ around." Slade said, parking the car in front of the Imperial Hotel in Toronto, glancing up at the winter sky as he hefted his overnight bag. And his other, larger duffel bag, which a drugged Wolverine had been stuffed into for way of transportation. The position was no doubt uncomfortable, but the mutant was unconscious, and taking up the least amount of space physically possible. "I like that in a client."

Entering the cool modern lobby, he ignored the doorman and maitre d'hôtel, heading directly for the elevator. He pressed up.

Celine Dion tinkled softly through the speakers. Slade ignored it, until Wade started singing along, at which point he cleared his throat loudly. "I got you your own room. Live it up like a rockstar if you want, Vandal Savage agreed to reimburse our expenses tab, but try not to draw too much attention to yourself. I'll be up by 0600 and out of here."

"I'm hurt. It's like you don't know me at all." Deadpool said, leaning against the doors and folding his arms over his chest. "Not that I don't appreciate the chance for a sleep and a shower, both things we've been long without on the road, but - not to put too fine a point on it, you have an angry Wolverine in a duffle bag. That's bound to cause questions."

"Well if he'd just die when I kill him, like a normal person, I wouldn't have to drag him to an old army base in the middle of nowhere in order to finish him off. It's hardly my fault." He replied, hefting the bag as though it were full of folded clothes, rather then human cargo. "We get there in two days, and plenty to work with. We throw everything we can at him and see what sticks." Slade stated, folding his arms as well. "After that, we head back to Jump City. Once we have the professionals, we'll see about purchasing a few hundred bodies to be everywhere we can't, and arm them for the job. Hopefully, overwhelming numbers, shock, awe and good old fashioned ruthlessness should carry the day, and we can drag back a good 90% or so. Then we hand them over to Savage, and get out of dodge before the fallout."

"Seems unlikely. How many of them are there these days?"

Slade shrugged. "Good point. Have to get someone to research that too."

"You know, I do keep a couple of guys on retainer. Slapstick, Foolkiller…"

"I want a team of rough-and-tumble bastards, not five morons you keep around to make yourself look better by comparison."

Deadpool had to concede that was a pretty fair assessment. "Not your people?"

"My people aren't really much better than yours, just less personality."

"Have anyone in mind?"

“One or two. Some friends of yours, some colleagues of mine.”

Deadpool blinked. "Is that nostalgia talking?"

"Well they were brought together as a way of finding a way to deal with mutants. And they've all got valuable skills for doing just that."

"And they're all getting on in the years too. You're pretty much well preserved, and I'm a fixed point in the sliding timescale, but the rest of them are going to be getting a bit long in the tooth." Deadpool replied. "Actually, question? Who do you already have?"

"Taskmaster and Red X."

"Taskmaster I can vouch for. Who is the other guy?"

"New Apprentice. Healing factor, suit that works on some horribly unstable chemical cooked up by Doctor Chang. Xenothium, or something."

"And he walks around wearing that?" Deadpool asked incredulously. "Hasn't he ever heard of occupational Health and Safety?  Has he ever heard of adequate shielding, and biohazards? Has he considered the children? You know, it's probably radioactive. He's probably sterile now."

Slade privately conceded that was likely the case, but was hardly unduly concerned. It wasn't him in the suit, afterall. "He's good enough in a fight, but he needs a lot of work. Needs to be sharpened, to work on his killing intent, and to develop his skills, so go easy on the kid. I'm still breaking him in."

"What can he do?"

"Sneak around and use gadgets, mostly. He was a half-ass thief and a half-ass vigilante cooked up from spare parts until I taught him better. Keeps changing his name for some reason. Went by every variation you can find on the X theme. Without being an X man, or having an X gene."

"Legal trouble, huh?" Deadpool said, nodding sagely. "Yeah, that can be bad. Ever hear about The Captain?"

"Which one?"

"The Captain. That schlub from Nextwave who was around for a while. He keeps on getting leaned on when he tries to be 'Captain something'. He's gone through like thirty names by this point." Deadpool grinned.

Slade blinked. "What really?"

"Yeah." Deadpool glanced at where he presumed the panel to be. "I'm not going to repeat the joke, but trust me, it's worth looking up." He then followed this up with a cheesy wink. "Pick up a trade paperback."

"No, no legal trouble. I think he thinks it's cool or something."

Deadpool tilted his head. "I hope you're not paying him too much."

"He's the hired gun equivalent to an intern. I don't pay him a red cent." Slade replied. "Next best thing to slavery, interning."

Deadpool, who was well used to not getting paid for his work, gaped in shock. "That's Unamerican!"

"Please. Freedom includes the right to be exploited, Wade. If he wants to do a job I should have to pay good money for at no cost at all, he's got nobody to blame but himself."

Wade couldn't form a coherent argument against that. The elevator dinged at their floor.

"Well, I have a meeting. Long, tedious. Pointless. You want to help me get through it?"

"Are you likely to stab me?"

"No."

Deadpool fell out of step, then stopped completely. "No. No, I'll be out tonight. Don't wait up for me." he declared. Any meeting in which his brother wasn't willing to stab him was most likely a dull affair.

"Got plans?"

"Better. I got the call to adventure!" Deadpool replied, removing the pair of cheap sunglasses he'd stolen from the security guard without the man noticing, and putting them on, while humming 'sunglasses at night'. "Deal with it."

"Suit yourself." Slade said with a shrug that made it plain it didn't matter to him one way or another. "We're keeping a low profile, so don't do anything I wouldn't."

"That's what exactly?" Deadpool asked, folding his arms. "Or have you forgotten that when we joined the army, you're the one who got 'Poor Impulse Control' tattooed onto his chest."

"That… that was a long time ago." Slade said. He sounded almost embarrassed. "Well, don't do anything that means we have to leave town in a hurry, running for our lives." He compromised at last, then unlocked his room and nodded to the man waiting for him.

"Hey, what happened to that tattoo? Did you get it removed, or…"

"My healing factor wiped it, same as all the others." Slade replied, not really paying attention anymore. His attention had found a new target to focus on.

"I've discussed my feelings about the word factor, and how it relates to you, Slade." Deadpool grumbled, then glanced at him again. "Hey, wait, then why do you still only have one eye?" but Slade wasn't listening.

Sebastian Shaw, as always, preferred the guise of a victorian gentleman - the traditional 'uniform', of the inner circle of the Hellfire club. He wore his back hair in an old fashioned stye, pulled back into a ponytail and secured by an elaborate red bow, his sideburns allowed to grow thick. His shrewd eyes probed Slade's cold one, and the mercenary could almost see his calculating mind working on a way to turn this situation to his advantage. Powerful shoulders despite the thin frame - a brawler, Slade thought, and something in his gaze seemed impossibly old and jaded.

Curiouser, and curiouser. Early in his career, back when Adeline was still alive and he was trying to justify himself to society, Slade had gone after quite a few nazis. He'd left that work, they were getting rarer, but were still far from an endangered species, mores the pity. Baron Zemo. Baron Strucker. Baron Blood. A lot of barons. Plenty of Doktor's too, but they'd mostly defected and got jobs working for NASA, or so he'd heard.

But Sebastien Shaw was with them by association. Not a baron or a doktor; not even a Nazi, per se. He was a Mutant supremacist, one of the first. And as soon as the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, he had decided he wanted a full-blown nuclear war between the United States and Russia. Back then, Shaw, who before the war had been a poor pennsylvanian Steel worker, hadn't a lot going for him, beyond some truly cut-throat business practices and a few connections, but he was a visionary, and he'd returned to America, forged a multi-billion dollar company with his bare hands, then went about creating himself some influence. First, he joined a very old gentleman's society called the Hellfire Club, which had been founded by Allestor Crowley to await 'The Coming of the Over-Man', but atrophied, and become a hangout for the privileged to complain about modern trends they didn't approve of over brandy and cigars. He taken it over, replaced it's upper echelons with people whose motives he could trust, if not their loyalty, got it into prostitution for the pocket change, smuggled drugs and laundered money for organized crime, all to give him capital which he turned into connections. Soon, a fair percentage of Washington's finest were in his pocket - big surprise there - and did his best to put the weight of money and influence behind making his endgame a reality. Of course, by then the world had moved on to the super-race, of human experimentation and genetic engineering. That was as much as Slade knew… though he had vague memories that Shaw had something to do with the Sentinel problem as well.

He didn't know who it was who thought giant robots designed to shoot civilians on sight was a good idea, but it was probably the same person who kept approving million-dollar experimental surgeries on serial killers. And the public wondered why there were so many super-villains at large - half the time it was their own tax dollars paying for them.

Sebastian Shaw was alone, which struck Slade as out of character, he had expected to meet a selection of mutants with useful powers as Shaw's escort, working as a all-purpose coterie of flunkies and bodyguard. He supposed not bringing them saved time - he was always up for a fight, but beating up a posse wouldn't accomplish much. Maybe Shaw had a secret he didn't want getting around.

"So, you're working for Vandal Savage." Slade said conversationally by way of introduction, hoping to get a rise. He glanced over his shoulder, but Deadpool was long gone.

"I approached Mr Savage, who saw the benefits of an alliance. We have much in common, desires that our acting to mutual benefit can see realised. His track record for dominance and influence is without question, as well as his significant financial base. And now, coupled with the legitimacy and talent I represent and the avenues I can open for him, a partnership is mutually beneficial." Shaw replied, with infinite dignity.

Slade coughed. "Now I'm just the muscle," he said, the self-deprecation entirely feigned "but don't you need to be partners to call it a partnership? As in, equals?"

No reaction. Of course not, Shaw was much harder to rile then that. Shame. Part of Slade - a big part, truth be told, wanted to keep on pushing until Shaw tried to fight him. He restrained it. Business before pleasure. Without further ado, Slade picked up the bag, hefted it in one hand just to show he could, then tossed it at the Mutant's feet. "There you are. Special delivery, one metal-skeletoned mutant, well tenderised, marinated in enough oxycontin and phencyclidine to sedate a herd of elephants, or to keep him out for years. Packed in a vacuum sealed bag. Small enough to fit into most overhead compartments too." Slade said, then folded his arms across his broad chest. "I'll have the rest for you in a couple of weeks."

"You were supposed to kill him." Shaw said, though his stainless steel eyes sparkled with something that could well have been avarice. And knowing the man in question, almost certainly wasn't anything else. Death wasn't final, not quite, but to someone like Shaw control was so much sweeter. He'd never destroy what he thought he could use. He engaged with others only for the purpose of advancing his own position, and expected the same from them - everything he did was playing for advantage in some way.

"Yes. Just him, not the others. Him specifically. And I will." Slade replied in a measured tone, bristling a little that his plan to do the task was being questioned. "Unfortunately, the trick is making sure he stays that way, and I need a few things to make that happen." Slade continued. "He was built to last, to survive. By nature, and by human design. So killing him isn't an easy matter. Even for something of an expert on the subject. But I'm sure you can personally attest to that."

Shaw eyed him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with his hand. "Do you know why I'm here?" He asked after a moment.

Slade's lip twitched. His eye chilled Sebastian Shaw’s soul. "To check my progress. And to offer assistance as a pretence for your spying." He replied. "You're micromanaging me. I don't appreciate it."

Shaw didn't bother to deny it. "I'm here to warn you away. You're not up to this. Neither of you are." He replied, folding his arms belligerently and sticking out his chin, looking ready for a confrontation. He wasn't difficult to read. He resented out-of-house experts being brought in for this job, one he clearly thought was his own responsibility. He was spoiling for a fight, figuring if he got one he'd prove his superiority, prove that he was better then the independents it took to get his job done.

Slade's face was as still and emotionless as a mask. He met Shaw's eyes evenly, and clearly wasn't intimidated. There wasn't a hint of fear there, not even a glimmer of bravado. Slade just stared back. "Care to explain?" He asked, sounding as though he were talking about the weather, or noting that he needed to buy more paper towels.

Shaw leaned forward; Slade did not lean back. "I have a certain respect for your capabilities. The two of you are good. Together, you might well be better. But the X-Men aren't posturing amateurs. I have tested them, many times. I have called on powers and allies greater then you can imagine. And time after time I have failed. They were the very best."

"I'm sure they were." Slade replied. "But what has that got to do with my brother and myself? You're talking about you." He leaned forward, and couldn't resist a smirk. "I'm not as old as you, Shaw, but I'm old enough to know something of history. It's been my experience that physical power and, to a large extent, mental power are both morally neutral and effectively real: conflicts are won by the stronger side. If you have failed, time and time again, then there is your answer. The reason is you yourself. You're not up to it."

Shaw opened his mouth, but Slade lifted a single finger, motioning for silence. "I want you to shut up now. I've got a few things to say, and if you interrupt I'll have to kill you. Got that?" Shaw's hands had clenched into fists. A pulse beat at the hollows of the mutant's temples, clocksprings of veins pulsing to the painful rhythm, and his eyes turned to dull lead, but Shaw pursed his lips and didn't reply. "Here's the thing." Slade begun, and his tone. "You play for advantage. But whenever you do start to see results, you try and hold out for something better. It's your failing. You don't know what to make of the expression 'Mission Creep'. You should just take the opportunity when it comes. Trying to squeeze more is counter-productive, particularly for the sake of imaginary objectives so far out of reach they might as well not exist at all, and so without fail you take your eye of the prize and try to go for something else, that you think will help you even better. And while you delay and second guess and finally just stand there, you get sucker-punched, because your enemies have taken the time to put their act together."

Shaw's face reddened, but he stayed silent. Slade's smirk widened a little. Gratifying, that. "I don't make mistakes like that. Not on other peoples work. Rarely on my own. Because I don't act, unless I know what I want. That was a hard lesson, but one I'm grateful for." He unconsciously rubbed his eye socket. "Knowing when to commit is everything. So I'll take my brother to help me, like Savage suggested. Because I can trust him, and he knows how to handle himself if there’s an outbreak of stupid. And we'll have the X-Men tagged and bagged in the time that you'd spend trying to work out your priorities instead of getting the job in front of you done."

Slade stood up. "To do that, all I need from you tonight? Some privacy. I need plenty of rest. Beyond that? Nothing. I have my own ways of doing things. I don't need you, or anything you can offer. Why don't you see yourself out." Slade grunted. Shaw maintained eye-contact a long moment, then got to his feet.

"I'll be taking Wolverine."

"You'll be taking nothing but what you brought in with you." Slade replied, folding his arms. The two stared at one another again, and again Shaw looked away first.

"Fine. Have it your way. You're in a position to have what you want - for the moment you're useful. But the moment you cease to be…"

"Then our business will be concluded." Slade interrupted, then yawned, widely and obviously. "Now I've been driving nine hours straight, and I'm tired. If you want to rattle off threats, come back in the morning and do it then."

Shaw glared some more, then wordlessly turned and walked past Slade, lingering in such a way as to leave no question that Slade had just gained a powerful and influential enemy.

Slade couldn't care less. He waited until the door closed, then he stretched, muscles bunching like a cat. First the mercenary removed his mask, then peeled away the layers of armour and kevlar and heavy fabrics, until he was stripped down to his skin and scars. The hard planes of his enhanced musculature seemed greyish and without life in the artificial light. Then he walked across the suite and into the adjoining bathroom. He ran the shower as hot as it would go, and left it running until the room was full of steam. Indulging in a moment of introspection, Slade regarded the span of his hands. They were large and strong, and bereft of any scars. He made a fist with the right, then the left. Fingers, check, all present and in working order. He methodically went through every joint in his body, and they all gladly responded. So why did he feel hollow and lifeless?

He checked his face in the mirror, and as always struck by how gaunt and careworn he was starting to look. Bags under his eye sockets. His skin less firm. He didn't look like himself, without the mask. He looked like a tired old stranger. A part of him noted he was starting to look like his father had, but he repressed that brutally. He was too late in his life for daddy issues. He took a deep breath, held it as he counted to ten, and closed his eyes for a moment, and thought of deep jungle, warm moist air, and the smell of blood. As always it calmed him down.

He was past sixty now. The best years were long gone, and he wouldn't be seeing them again.

Sometimes he felt so old he marvelled that his bones hadn't ground to powder, his muscles hadn't atrophied into useless ropes of grizzled sinew. Yet here he remained, the same man he'd always been inhabiting the broad-shouldered body of a man a fraction of his age. Slade was a man not used to conflicting emotions, which made the swelling self-loathing deeply uncomfortable.

When he opened his remaining eye, the moment was past. He was strong and quick and possessed of an edge that had made him dangerous long before the enhancements began. Slade bared his teeth. Old, but there was not much he could do about. Old he could live with. But strong, that was important. He was still brutally hard on himself. Far past sixty though he was, he was all hard muscle and gristle, tough as he physically could be. Despite his enhancements, not because of them.

Then he stepped into the shower.

Hot water hissed powerfully from the shower-head, flushing his skin a raw shade of red with its warmth, plastering the clear shower stall glass with condensation, filling its interior with billowing steam, and Slade relaxed and let the burning hot liquid scald his skin raw, until he was pink and tender.

Then he caught up on personal maintenance. He brushed his teeth, and soaped his hair. He reopened the cuts that had closed on his chest with the throat-slit razor he mostly used for shaving out of habbit, and let them bleed a little before taking a needle and thread and sewing them closed. His healing factor wasn't perfect. Such measures were necessary, if he wanted to take care of himself. There wouldn't even be a mark tomorrow. When he got out, he wrapped a towel around his hips, and trimmed his short warrior beard.

Satisfied, he took the time to fold his clothes and then walked over to lie on the couch. The room had a bed, but at that moment he couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in it. The couch seemed good enough. Digging out his spare semi-automatic, he switched off the safety and lay it within easy reach, confident he could have it in his hand in an instants notice. It's a mark of how tired he felt that he didn't double-check all the locks as was his usual habit.

Then he drifted off to sleep, with his one eye open. He needed sleep, more then even normal people did. The human brain wasn't meant to function at ninety percent capacity all the time, neurones blazing like a forge; he needed to rest as much as possible. That, he'd long since identified and accepted, was his weakness. The chink in his armour, when his day came (for Slade fully expected to die in battle), the way so many had experienced at his hands, it would be that which they exploited, that they used to do him in.

Not that he'd make it easy for them. Slade was careful, patient and methodical. Once, back when Grant had been alive, he had worked out how long it had taken him, in retrospect, to achieve what he now considered a decent level of caution - weighed up how much experience it had taken him to get good instead of lucky - and had begun to suspect that most people died before they got there. Afterall, Grant had.

He relaxed, and let himself drift away.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Deadpool hadn't actually gotten far. He walked out the door, then stood around, waiting for something to happen. He was in costume, given that he hadn't actually brought any other clothes, but had left his effects with Slade in the hotel room. Canada was a wonderful place, but lacked America's hilariously liberal gun laws.

It took maybe five minutes. "Got you." A snarling rasp, a rumble, words like handfuls of hot gravel cobbled together using sounds not unlike words. Speaking coherently was hard with a mouth full of fangs.

Deadpool started to turn. "Can I be of some assistance, citizen?" A gigantic hand, big and coarse and tipped with hooked talons an eagle would be envious of, reached out of the darkness and picked him up by the neck. It turned him around and slammed him back against the wall, holding him by the throat. 

Deadpool was being throttled, his feet kicking off the ground. The hand pressed him back still harder against the wall. Brickwork ground into his back, and his skull impacted painfully against the wall, cracking his skull and incidentally smashing the aviator shades he'd forgotten to take off into a useless mess of metal and glass shards. The hand let go, letting him drop to his hands and knees. Deadpool remained there a minute, panting like a bellows, then very slowly straightened himself, turned to stare at the hulking mutant, then calmly pulled the broken shades off his face and pulled out a spare pair of shades from his pouch, which he then placed on over his mask, fiddling and adjusting them until they were just the angle he liked, then commented "Well that was kinda rude."

Sabertooth stuck to formula, and caught him with a left, catching the back of Deadpool's neck, and ripping him down towards his upthrust knee.

This time it knocked Deadpool clear off his feet, to crash into the plastic bins and left him sprawled on his rear, covered with garbage and seeing stars, Sabertooth looming above him. Victor Creed had spread his nose across his cheeks, knocked out seven of his teeth and left the inside of his mask a bloody mess. Acting with the utmost dignity, Deadpool got back to his feet, brushed himself off, straightened himself up, shook his head slightly, adjusted his costume minutely, then tossed the second ruined pair of sunglasses aside, only to don a third set with an attitude of triumph, and then folded his arms across his chest. "Now buddy - that's right, I called you buddy and there's nothing you can do about it - I've only got one more pair on me and I've got considerably less patience than that. What the bloody all loving hell are you doing?"

"It's Jim's birthday." Sabertooth said, and in the dim light, his toothy smile and eyes that seemed too open and too wild he attained a menace almost beyond description. Victor Creed was a towering brute. He had to be more than two and a half meters, and given bis broad shoulders he seemed to loom even larger. He shared the same aspect of straight nose and wide-spaced eyes so reminiscent of Wolverine, though his face was a sneering mask made of clenched knuckles, his hair a dirty blond and his eyes feral. "Tracked him here."

A faint breeze blew a lonely Cornetto wrapper across the parking lot like a tumbleweed. The scratchy sound of its skittering passage and the distant wheezing thump from the main street where a delivery truck with loose valves was unloading were the only noises to be heard. Sabertooth's singularly vicious grin began to falter.

Finally, when the moment was too awkward to bear, Deadpool sighed, and placed a comforting arm around Sabertooth's shoulders - who shrugged it off, looking murderous - but Deadpool's sudden affability didn't slip. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You see, there's been a scheduling conflict. It's things like this that make me wonder if anyone even bothers to co-ordinate the stories at all."

Sabertooth's rather limited patience was promptly used up. A deep, growling sound began in Sabertooth's chest, rumbled it's way through his throat and into the air, and sounded as though it would end in Deadpool's throat. The sound touched something primal in Deadpools brain, where it prompted his instincts to insist he find a tree to climb and hide in. The growl spoke of slinking shapes and savage eyes that could wait a hundred years and not starve, and could drink an entire ocean and not burst, yet always hungered. Anyone sane would have been warned off. But Deadpool hadn't seen sanity for a long time, and no longer recognised it when it tried to warn him.

"I know, know, it's not fair. I understand your frustration man, really, it happens to me all the time, but believe it or not there is a bright side. Look, I know you want to do something horrible to him, but it's not feasible. See, we're already doing something horrible to him, and we were here first."

Sabertooth loomed closer. His fingers twitched, as his body tried to do the thinking for him. Though he could think, he preferred to listen to his instincts, and wanted to remove one of Deadpool's arms and beat him to death with it. Normally he'd go with it, had not the Merc with the Mouth said one word that prompted his curiosity."Really. That's not going to work for me."

"Ah." Deadpool said, looking up at the feral mutant and swallowing. He went through a lot of pain every day, but suddenly he got the distinct impression this was going to really suck, even by his advanced standards. "Well, in that case, there's a good reason for you to back off. Now first, I want you to imagine I have a big gun on my right hip."

Sabertooth blinked. "You do have a big gun on your hip." He wasn't entirely sure where this was going.

Deadpool, looking down and realising he'd subconsciously remembered to arm himself after all, managed a sort of relieved sneer - which is harder then it sounds. "Just don't want you to stretch your imagination too far. Now I want you to imagine what might happen if I got mad and decided to use it, with you having nothing to fight back 'cept the fingernails of a bag lady."

"Best I can tell, nothing." Sabertooth retorted, and drove his stiffened fingers out-stretched at Deadpool's face. This time, Wade was ready for him and retaliated, moving in unpredictable ways with uncanny speed. Sabertooth went for him again fast and hard as ever, but Deadpool dropped, balancing on his hands and swinging out with both legs like a gymnast, knocking the mutant's feet from under him. "You really need to work on telegraphing your moves, Sabertooth." he chided as the big mutant fell flat on his face. "The whole bestial scream thing kind of gives the game away." Deadpool said, and went for his gun, fast as a flash of red lightning.

But not fast enough. Sabertooth's claws, just a blur in the murky twilight, went through Deadpool's hand in a line across the base of the thumb, severing his fingers, his thumb and the upper half of his palm, and snapping the grip of his Dirty Harry Magnum. The cut was so clean that there was no pain at first. Deadppol staggered backwards, watching the thin sprays of blood jetting out of his ruined hand. 

"Damn, that was my favourite gun." Deadpool whined, dodging out of the way of Sabertooth's other claw, which swung past him and hit the wall so hard it left an imprint in the brickwork.

"A gun? Really? You should just lie down and take your beating. Get it over and done with." Sabertooth mocked as he straightened up.

"What can I say? Something about you makes me want to shoot you." Deadpool replied, picking up his thumb and holding it agains the stump, feeling the joint swell and begin to link up with the missing piece of himself. He was able to grab two of his fingers, and did the same with them.

Adopting a crouching stance that he tended to fall into when pressed to really fight or when the opponent in question proved impossible to humiliate into submission, as dictated by the fighting regimen of Marine Martial Arts he'd cut his teeth with, Deadpool rushed towards the Mutant. It was the last thing it'd expect. He hoped.

Sabertooth lunged right back, and Deadpool barely dodged the sudden attack. Using his low posture to sweep under and around the blow, Deadpool rammed a quick forearm smash into the mutant’s elbow, driving his outstretched claw into his own face.

"Why are you hitting yourself?" It was childish, and beneath him, and he regretted it, but it had just sort of come out. Sabertooth roared and came at him with renewed vigour. Deadpool ducked the clumsy two-armed bear hug aimed at him and used Sabertooth’s momentum to trip him hard onto his rump.

About then, he was starting to feel good about himself. Good enough to drive his foot into a soft, sensitive area. As Sabertooth hissed in pain, his world collapsing into a very small, very private universe of pain, Deadpool kicked him a few more times. "That's a down payment for Vanessa, but it's only the start." Deadpool said, in a passable impression of his brother. He normally didn't let this sort of thing get to him, but he had reason to hate Sabertooth. "I've put this off a long time, but interest rates have never been better. And now, I'm going to beat the ugly out of you, sweetheart." He kicked him again in that same sensitive area, hard as he could, and smiled as he heard the big mutant's pained grunt get a little higher in pitch. "So we might be here for a while." He'd been saving that line for this occasion, even let a few opportunities go past while still holding it in reserve, but now it was time to use it, and he was happy with how it turned out.

Which unfortunately was also about when it all went wrong.

The manoeuvre almost worked, but Sabertooth turned out of his trip, using his free hand to support his body. He twisted, using the momentum to carry him, and landed a fierce punch to Deadpool's midriff when he came back too swiftly for the Merc with a Mouth to block. An overhand blow followed as Sabertooth sought to chain his attacks, but Deadpool moved out of the striking arc and unleashed a fearsome upraised knee that sent Sabertooth hurtling backwards. Deadpool was on him before he could get to his feet, pressing his advantage. He rained three quick, flat-handed strikes against the mutant’s nose, ear and solar plexus. then, in a sudden turn he hadn't seen coming, Sabertooth drove forward and hooked both arms around his torso. Using the weight of the attack to propel him, Sabertooth roared and flung Deadpool bodily across the alleyway and into a Prius parked innocently and inoffensively out of the way. As Deadpool tried to extricate himself from the windshield he'd half gone through, Sabertooth flexed and flipped the car over, leaving it on top of him. "Get over it." Sabertooth growled, then drove his elbow into Deadpools face, shattering it and flattening the cartilage of his nose. "That bitch never loved you."

Deadpool was beginning to gather what the C-List fodder with highly specific power-sets lives must be like. He wanted his swords. Or his guns. Bombs, bombs would be good. A tank? Couldn't ask for a better friend then a tank at a time like this, unless of course you counted a airforce jet, or better yet the Hellecarrier. "You know, &*%$ you." He yelled defiantly. He could only say that word once or they'd wind up with an 'R' rating - then again, that had worked out in his favour before.

It would take more then some presumably harsh language to get to Sabertooth. "Sounds like I hit a nerve." He sneered through a mouth full of fangs. "Not going to happen." Then slammed his forehead into Deadpools already severely broken face, cracking bone.

Things were not looking good for our hero. Armed with nothing but kung-fu, an ability to heal, and his rapier like wit (his left head voice added the power of being the sole individual able to prevent forrest fires, then added an image of trembling forest creatures trying to pay him off while he laughed maniacally, but he digressed), he was clearly the underdog. And not in an inspiring way either, in the 'fodder to make the villain seem dangerous before the real hero comes along' kind of way.

"I'd have won if I had shot you, #$@%-waffle." Deadpool said, trying not to sound petulant.

"Shoot me?" Victor chuckled, showing his fangs. "You shoot me in a dream, you better wake up and apologise." A hand came down, and crushed Wade's jaw to his head. Slowly, he began to press, forcing his neck out of alignment.

"Hey, you're a Quentin Tarantino fan as well! We have so much to teach each other. Let's put all our differences behind us, and be best of friends- urk."

Sabertooth cut him off, then lifted his hand to cut something else off. Deadpool tensed, then he paused, some sixth sense, some meta-textual awareness, maybe an awareness of cliches, something like that formed a general warm feeling in his stomach, and he knew all was going to be right with the world.

First, a huge bolt of energy tore through the atmosphere and snaked along the rim of one of the dumpsters. Sabertooth hadn't noticed it, an Deadpool lacked the ability or the inclination to point it out to him, but the merc with a mouth took it as a good sign, given the unlikeliness of things managing to get worse.

Then the air started to crackle and howl like a radio stuck between two stations, the music all twisted into a dissonant squeal, more felt then heard. Deadpool was no scientist, but this was no regular lightning. A chaotic crisscrossing of arcing purple-white lines of energy licked at the walls on either side of the alleyway, their fiery tongues lashing out, caressing the brickwork. The frenetic dance of power continued to build until it snarled into a thick ball of whiplashing light. The ball of light brightened as the bolts of energy seemed to coalesce. Sabertooth's hair began to rustle, as if caught by a breeze, then his hair stiffened and rose straight up. Suddenly static was everywhere, filling the alleyway with the pristine, tingly odor of ionized air. 

Things seem to go in slow motion for a brief moment as Deadpool registered the instant. The energy built to a bright light that scarred his retinas like staring into a laser pointer, the ball of light exploded into purple slashes, and he was staring directly into the fast incoming headlights of a beautifully modified classic japanese car, which appeared out of nowhere and was moving in excess of a eighty eight miles an hour.

Vague, half-formed plans of wrapping his legs around Sabertooths arm and using his leverage to turn the big mutants mass against him and twist him into a rolling arm-bar were abandoned in favour of curling into a fetal ball and hoping it's over quickly. Sabertooth proved slower to react, not getting much done except an expression of surprise and confusion as the car rammed into them both, sending Sabertooth flying head over heels. Skidding to a halt, the door opened, and out he stepped.

He was a big guy, course features and a scrub of white hair, the artificial light gleaming off his bionic arm, and some truly enormous guns hanging from the harness he wore. Nate Summers had to be the the only man Deadpool had ever encountered whose taste in high yield firepower surpassed his brothers and his own. Each of those pieces was a work of art, assuming there was an artist somewhere whose sole method of expression was over-sized and over-whelming firearms. He looked ready for a fight.

Deadpool had seen bigger men - he was wrestling with one right now. Maybe even some who were physically stronger. But not as perfect. The muscles bunched and loosened in smooth fluid motions, rippling the beautifully sculpted torso. The arms were a study in powerful symmetry, the angry curve of the biceps narrowing with precision at the elbow, then expanding with awesome mathematical balance into thick forearms that flowed into almost gracefully thin wrists. The fingers on the massive hands rolled out and flexed. Poetry in motion.

Man, Cable could make a first impression, Deadpool all but swooned. Just the glowing eye and metal arm alone do it, let alone the guns. And his stance? Wow. That guy knows who he is and just how much he can kick your ass.

Cable looked at Victor Creed. He looked at Deadpool. Was he too early or something? Shouldn't Deadpool be in New York, he was sure of it… "Shit, don't remember any of this," he muttered to himself, his voice all whiskey and broken glass, then looked up to see the mercenary and the psychopath staring at him. Both looked confused. "Well this is awkward." He added inadequately.

Deadpool scratched his head. “I’m dying, aren’t I. The big C’s finally figured out how to do me in, and this a Make-A-Wish Foundation thing or something.” He assumed a melodramatic pose. "Well, I can't think of a better way to go out. I'm ready! Take me away to Valhalla! Preferably send Valkyrie to do it… though I guess I'll settle for Faendal or Hogun - hell, even Volstagg, as long as they wear the traditional outfit."

Sabertooth got to his feet, brushing off his long black coat as though nothing had happened in a desperate attempt to regain a little dignity - maybe even control of the situation. Sabertooth never reconsidered his actions as a rule, but this was going wrong in new and exciting ways. Cable looked at him, eyes narrowing. You didn't need to be a psychic to sense the big mutant was still spoiling for a fight. "You're crashing this party, Nate." Sabertooth growled, drawing himself up to his full height, which was almost a head on Cable, and drew attention to a chest that was as wide as a bear's and about as heavy with muscle.

"That's not all I crashed." Cable replied belligerently, sticking out his chin. His hands balled into fists, and his muscles flexed. He'd just escaped a truly horrifying future, and he failed to see how putting down Victor Creed wouldn't make it a significantly better place. "You don't look so good."

Sabertooth couldn’t help but grin, though his pulse was racing. He turned, and his fingers twitched, the light catching the edges of his claws. "I could mess you up, son. I really could."

"You could try," replied Cable evenly.

"I would, you know?"

"Yes, I have a feeling you might. Don’t. It's not that I hate the thought of doing you damage - to be honest, that sounds positively cathartic, it's that I'm not in the mood to draw attention. So start something, and I'll put you down so hard you never get up." He took a step forward. "I didn't start this fight, Victor. But you better believe that I can finish it."

"Addressing me by my christian name." Sabertooth growled. "You know, I'm not sure I like how you're getting all familiar on me, talking down like that." He edged closer, lowering his centre of mass almost too slowly to be noticed, trying not to tip his hand. Sabertooth wasn't stupid, even when his blood was up, even if his brutish nature made him seem that way. He knew his only chance against Cable was to take him by surprise, and take him out quickly.

"Here's the thing." Nate growled, and while he lacked the intimidation factor Victor Creed had turned into an art form, there was little doubt he could make good on what he promised. Victor lowered and made a move, charging forwards - but he didn't get far. Cable didn't engage. He didn't even go for his gun (any of them). He just placed two fingers on the side of his head, their tips resting on his temple, and before Sabertooth could do a thing what was left of him was sent flying of his feet and down the alleyway in an explosion of gore, looking as though a landmine had detonated inside his ribcage. Nate removed his fingers, not needing any more mind-bullets, and turned to Deadpool."Wade. You well?"

"Well." Wade said, looking at his mangled fingers and realising he was obligated to make the obvious joke. "I could use a hand."

"Funny." Cable said humourlessly, reaching down and picking him up. A part of him couldn't help but feel bad for running his friend over, even if it seemed to have worked out in the end. So much so he even helped Deadpool find the missing fingers. "Not really. That even sounded bad in my own head, I just couldn't help myself." The merc with the mouth admitted.

"Seriously, you okay?"

"Well, I seem to be losing a lot of fights. I mean, I suppose it's to be expected, but my ego could use the pandering, you know? I feel like I've been relegated to Disney princess, ineffectively waiting for the big, strong, ruggedly handsome men to come and rescue me." Deadpool sighed, then gave Cable a look of unadulterated adoration, batting his eyelids. "So did you kill him or what?"

‘It’ll take more than that to finish the likes of him,’ said Cable. He patted the heavy gun strapped to his back in a manner that suggested he knew at least one reliable alternative. "So. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, my brother got us a job."

That definitely wasn't right. The Wilsons working together… something was very wrong. "What's the job."

Wade looked at him incredulously. "Why did you save me if you're just going to try to get me killed right after?" Deadpool all but shrieked, his face aghast enough that something of his horrified expression could be seen through the fabric of his mask. "You know I would have to kill you if I told you. And since if I tried you'd kill me, that would make you a murderer."

Cable blinked, but couldn't fault the circulous logic.

"Deadpool…"

"I'm serious. Wild horses couldn't drag it from me."

"But it's Mr Sinister, isn't it?"

"What? No. No! That's stupid, and so are you. It's Vandal Savage." Deadpool's brain, finally catching up with his mouth, was too late, and could only gape in horror and what he had wrought.

This time, Cable was ready for the worst, but it still hit him where he lived. Some of the frustration at the sheer impossibility of the situation was spilling out of him. No matter what he did, the future he had come to avert seemed to find a way past his attempts. _En Sabah Nur_ never stayed dead, the sentinel program never stayed buried, and mutants always remained in more or less the same place. But things always managed to get worse. They never got better, no matter what was done, how hard he fought, but they always managed to get worse.

Some of that must have shown on his face, because Deadpool took a step back, holding up his hands. "But hey, it's not like I like him or anything. The guys crazy. And not charming, self-aware crazy like me, more 'drools, talks to himself and picks his teeth with a box-cutter crazy. I feel like he sits down with his psychiatrist and says things like _'Interdum feror cupidine partium magnarum europe vincendarum'_." It occurred to Deadpool's Right Side Head Voice that some of his readers may not have had a classical education, and find that incomprehensible, but in these days of mass media and the internet, he was sure they could put it through Google and get a translation in a few seconds.

Cable barely even heard him, or registered that 'since when did Wade speak Latin?'. Was this a change to the timeline, or had it happened this way last time, and some of his information was inaccurate? Truth be told, he wasn't sure which possibility was worse.

Unnoticed, at the end of the alleyway, Sabertooth was getting to his knees with all the grace of a terminally ill arthritic grandfather, grimacing in pain and self-loathing as he was unable to suppress the occasional mewls of agony as his body protested moving. His healing factor was beginning to feel seriously over-taxed, and his body felt as though his internal organs had been re-arranged in alphabetical order.

"Do I want to know what the job is?"

Wade shook his head, perhaps a little ashamed. "No. You don't."

"That bad, huh?" Cable sighed, suddenly looking very old and tired. "I want a favour, Wade."

"Ask." Deadpool replied, without hesitation.

Cable gave a grim look from the vast repertoire he had developed - which ranged from very, very blackly grim indeed at the bottom of the scale, suitable for the absolute destruction of all that was right and good with existence, all the way up to tiredly resigned and only faintly grim, which he reserved for reunions with long lost friends, adorably precocious kittens, and children's birthdays. "Keep doing what you're doing. But keep me informed. Be my inside man. You good to do that?"

"You want me to spy on my brother?"

"Well I did just save your life."

Deadpool sighed. "So, while transporting a mutant living weapon across Canada with my brother, I get attacked by the mutants arch rival, saved by my time-travelling best friend, and asked to be a double agent, by trying to succeed in a job I was thinking of undermining in the hopes of making it fail." Deadpool sighed. "I swear, my life is not like other peoples."

Cable shrugged sympathetically. "Try saving the future some time."

Sabertooth had gotten up, and more or less pulled himself together. Cable turned to look at him, and his eye blazed with white light. "You need to understand something right now, Victor. There are things going on tonight that you don't want to mess with. They're bigger then me, which makes them that much bigger then you. So don’t start pissing around. Don’t get involved. You’ll understand soon enough. For now, right now, Victor, take my word on this. You don't want to be here. Go."

Sabertooth slunk off.

Deadpool whistled, impressed. Well, why wouldn't he be? "You'll have him house-broken next."

"It's a gift."

"So look, I feel like spying on my brother is one of those grey areas that doesn't lead anywhere good." Deadpool started to say.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Wade."

"I know that. But the thing is, Slade doesn't care a fart in a hurricane about the X-Men. It's Wolverine he wants, and he's already got him. Why don't we just hunt down Shaw and see what he knows? Once you get the information, you can stop Vandal Savage, and the whole thing you're worried about will never happen. He won't be hard to find. In fact, he's meeting my brother right now, it shouldn't be hard to sort it out now."

"I probably can't let him kill Wolverine either."

"Wow, really?" Deadpool said, sounding impressed. "What, does he run for president or something?"

"It's more a matter of principle."

"Oh. That." Deadpool said distastefully. "Come on, compromise."

"Wade…"

"Don't give me that look. Anyway, it's not like he's going to actually do it. He talks a good game, but he'll try, sure, he might even succeed, but Wolverine's gone down more often than even he can remember. Like his owners would kill a character worth as much as him."

Cable shrugged. "Well, I'll give it a go, and we can see where it takes us."

“That’s going to work for me too. You and me are partners, men forced together by fate and the shine of money, against the odds. How about we seal it with a kiss? You just bring out the best in me, you big lug.”

“Lets just…” He rubbed his temples with his fingers. Deadpool always seemed to have that effect on Cable. “Lets just take it one thing a time.”

"I'll take it! The band's back together." Deadpool said, clapping his hands together loudly. "This is the renewal of a beautiful friendship!"

"Really." Cable said drily. "Because to me, it feels more like I'm about to make a terrible mistake."

 


	14. Chapter 14

The alleyway's across the city of Toronto had a lot in common with one another, Deadpool thought - as it occurred to him that perhaps he should write a guidebook. The one they had parked the Delorean in had a dumpster on the other side of the street, but otherwise was a dead ringer for the alley he and Cable had began their fantastic reunion tour in.

People thought the occupation of a trigger happy mercenary was glamorous, or at least an escape from their dull colourless lives, but tonight he didn't seem to be doing much aside from hanging around in alleyways in Canada. Admittedly all three times he'd been accompanied by macho types who were easily ripped enough to win any regional body-building competition and ruggedly handsome to boot (though perhaps a little more scarred and rugged then conventional standards of beauty endorsed - not that he was complaining), but he was related to one, really disliked the second, and as for the first…

…well, he was happily married, and not to Cable. More's the pity.

Sebastien Shaw had proven easy enough to follow, given he was traveling in a matt black stretch limousine. If he noticed he'd picked up a tail, he didn't seem concerned about it, but Cable kept back and drove cautiously, just in case.

The club which seemed to be his destination, or at least his destinations front, was called the 'Chaos Theatre', and it was as fine a palace as any decadent Roman Emperor would have found more then to his liking, and it sat like a crown of light in the city. As it turned out, the Hellfire Club didn't have much of a presence in Canada, and none whatsoever in Toronto, so it was going to waste, and had somehow evolved into a hangout for the unemployed young-adult slacker demographic.

Sad.

Truthfully, Deadpool wondered what it was they could do to someone living in a place like that, which they were not already willingly doing to themselves, but he didn't put it into words. He was busy was almost shaking with excitement.

Cable was shaking too, but only his head at the pretentiousness of it all.

"OK, here's the plan." Deadpool began, as they got out of the vehicle. "I will be codename Soaring Eagle. I will cunningly infiltrate the building through the air vents and perform reconnaissance."

"That doesn't seem necessary."

"I am entirely open to criticism and suggestions for improving my strategy. And on an entirely unrelated note, that's stupid and so are you." Deadpool replied airily. "Now if there won't be any more interruptions, I'll get on with it. You will be codename Sitting Duck. You will walk in the front door, act surreptitious and inconspicuous, and be ready to back me up if I give you the signal."

"Which is?"

"I'll improvise. Never be afraid to improvise. Of course, you'll be able to figure it out. I mean, you can just pull it out of my head with the powers of your mind."

Cable sighed. "You know, you are working for him. You could probably walk in the front door."

“Working _for_ him. Not with you. We'd have to split up."

"We are splitting up. It's part of your plan."

"Well, yes. Sneaking around isn't really your strength. Strength is your strength. You're much too burly, and heavy-set, and rugged, and mightily thewed…" Deadpool stopped adding adjectives before he actually started drooling again "to ever fit in the vents. And I don't trust Shaw to tell me what I want to know, hence the sneaking and spying."

"So why don't you ask your brother?" Cable paused. "Hell, I look enough like him that with the mask and suit nobody would know the difference. Or I could just mess with their perceptions enough that they think they’re seeing your brother."

Deadpool repressed that thought as deeply as it would go, but he still shuddered a little. If Cable ever mentioned dressing up as his brother again, he'd splatter his brains on the sidewalk and hope they took the memory with them. "No, that's not happening. Shaw'll have a telepath with him anyway. I mean, he always does. Besides I'm not going to scheme against my brother - he's not involved in this. That's why I'm helping you now." Deadpool replied, folding his arms. "Anyway, even if that did work, Shaw wouldn't tell him anything. He's a mutant supremacist. And Slade and I aren't mutants. He's probably got two unmarked graves lined up for us once we 'outlive our usefulness'. This is practically pre-emptive revenge."

Cable raised an eyebrow. “Is that a thing?”

"Sure. Anyway, if we do question him, I'd like to catch him with his guard down. But I'd rather not fight him at all - and that's rare for me, so let's go with my instincts. Let's just try and give subtle a try first, alright?"

"Fair enough." Cable agreed after a moment. Deadpool might be a bit flighty, but there was no denying he was good at what he did, and if he was working to avoid senseless violence, he definitely had his head in the game. "Still, I think the plan could be improved."

"Then it's a good thing this isn't a democracy." Deadpool retorted. "Now, I'm feeling naked, and not in a personally empowering way. Papa needs some heavy ordinance."

"I thought you wanted to avoid fighting."

"Guns. Now."

In answer, Cable opened up the boot of his car. Deadpool couldn't help but drool.

There wasn't the normal selection of over-sized masculinity reaffirming futuristic weapons, superior to contemporary weapons in length, girth and potency, as well as attention they attracted from ladies, and the satisfaction users received after they had finished spending their load… of ammunition. Instead, there was a selection of revolvers and rifles that looked like they came off the set of an old west period drama. Normally Deadpool preferred more bullets then less, spray and pray was how things got done, but he was willing to make an exception.

Deadpool grabbed the first one that caught his eyes, finding just the sort of exception he'd been waiting his whole life for. It was a repeating rifle, a Winchester, complete with the large rounded hoop handle on the lever action. It was seriously heavy, with an octagonal barrel, walnut wood fixtures, and shining brass housing. Elkhorn sights. The gun had a certain comforting mass to it, that was at least as much as a comfort as it's raw power.

He had fallen in love. He wanted to hold it, to tell it how pretty it was, to treat it nice and take it out to a delicious sea-food dinner, while musicians played romantic music with violins. He wanted to tell it how his day went, to spend a lazy afternoon in bed next to it reminiscing on the long years they'd been together. He wanted to argue with it, then make up after the argument, and laugh about it later. He picked it up, and it was his.

It was a first for him, going from coveting to possessing in so little time. He took a couple of over-sized revolvers as well, as even though he vastly preferred automatic weapons you could never have too many firearms.

"So where'd you get all this?"

Cable was a trifle more reserved, although he was clearly excited himself. "Australia. Twenty years from the present."

"You mean now?"

"No. It's always twenty years from now, whenever now happens to be." Cable replied, then shook his head as he made out Deadpool's incredulous expression through his mask. "Just trust me, time travels a fuc-."

"Hey hey hey! Watch the mouth! This is not a MAX imprint." Deadpool admonished. "So what's it like? Can I get some information and win the superbowl?"

Cable looked at him. In his eye was the million yard stare of a man who had looked on helplessly as the world had died time and time again. "Well, one ordinary Wednesday the power is going to go out. It is not going to come back again. The water will turn sour and poisonous. The food will run out. The weak will be ripped to pieces by the strong. Civilisation will meaningfully cease. Giant radioactive storms that have destroyed all the cities will sweep across the desert, because everything will be desert, radically altering the landscape. Breathing unfiltered oxygen will be a slow death sentence. Our bones will be poisoned - a long life will be measured in a handful of decades. And all that remains will be gangs of cargo-cult cannibals murdering each other over imaginary lines in the sand. Water will be more precious then human life. Petrol will become more precious still. Want to hear more?"

"No, I think I've heard enough. Maybe my life isn't that exciting afterall." Deadpool cleared his throat, then stepped underneath the duct. Taking a moment to imagine he was John Wayne in Rio Bravo, the way he always did before a fight, he climbed the brick-wall with ease, using his fingertips and toe-tips and demonstrating amazing agility as he did, used a credit-card to slip under the grate covering his means of entrance and pull it loose. The grill made a tremendous clanging sound as it crashed on top of the car, denting it. Deadpool winced, but Cable only shook his head, as if to say 'get on with it', and made a hurry-up motion with his flesh hand. Deadpool let out a sigh of relief, and began his cunning entry.

Cable walked in through the front door, and didn't even need to use his awe-inspiring telepathic abilities to insure that nobody paid him any mind.

Everyone was far too self-absorbed to notice him.

Cable felt out of place.

Cable was out of place. Or rather, out of time. He didn't belong in this period, and he certainly didn't belong in this room. Nobody acknowledging it somehow only made it all the worse.

Someone had obviously put a lot of love into designing this place. It was deep underground, he wasn't sure how deep, but enough that he needed an elevator to enter. After that, it was all there. Greek coloumns, cage dancers, two art deco designed full bars, and a large platform pyramid with flickering lights for live performances where a marginally talented band named 'The Runaway Five' were giving the people something to dance to - or, to be more accurate, sway and bounce to on the massive dance floor. There were arcade games everywhere and a plethora of seating for patrons, and a listless crowd.

Cable walked over to the bar intending to order himself a couple of fingers of whiskey, before deciding he didn't really feel like drinking. For something to occupy himself, he picked up one of the glossy magazines, and perused the cover.

 _'Trenchcoats are in. The Spy look. This Fall, being inconspicuous is the only way to get noticed'_ was the front page article, followed by _'Pizza? For breakfast? The answer might surprise you'_. Cable put the magazine back down, fairly confident that he wasn't going to learn anything useful from it's pages, then glanced at another. Surprise, surprise, more of the same. It was times like this that reminded him how difficult his eternal struggle was to see from outside. To the rest of the world, those without the perspective, it was absolutely nothing to do with anything. But as far as waging it went, that information didn't help him much. Cable hadn't paid much attention to what people were wearing, last time through this period, much less what they were eating for breakfast. He picked the magazine back up, and turned to the closest thing he could find to a current events page. He had no idea at all what he was looking for.

"Hi, my name is Scott Pilgrim." Some young man mentioned, having spotted him and made his way over.

"Mmmm." Cable replied, not really listening.

"What do you think I should do?"

Cable put down the magazine, and turned to look at him. "What?"

"It's this thing I do. I talk to people, y'know? Like, without getting them on social media first. Radical, I know. Ask them if they have big problems that only I can solve. You'd be surprised how many people are just waiting for someone to talk to them. Also, I poke through crates, too. Y'know, for items that I can use."

Cable honestly couldn't care less, but he supposed he was marginally more likely to learn something useful from talking to this guy then looking at the magazine.

"So what do you think I should do?"

Cable grunted noncommittally, wishing the kid would quit prattling and leave him some space. "You know, I have my own problems. Work it out yourself."

"Oh." He said, looking disenhearted, then all of a sudden perked up. "So what do you think I should do?"

Cable wondered if this was what kicking a puppy felt like. He suspected it was. "You just asked me that. I told you what I think."

"Oh. Sorry, I like to ask all the questions I can think of, and sometimes I forget which ones I asked already." He blinked. "Sorry, let me just... Knives keeps on wanting to get closer, you know make it more official and she's becoming more and more demanding - and I'm only dating her because I didn't want any of that hassle, plus now I feel bad because Ramona is working night and day to keep the money coming in. So I asked her to come with me to Todd's costume party - knowing that she wouldn't be able to - to cover up the fact that I've already asked Knives to come. And despite the fact that Ramona gave me an out on the phone - which I didn't take - I think I might be having a moral dilemma." He shook his head. "I don't know how to have one. I mean, what am I supposed to do?"

Cable turned slowly to look at him. The old veteran’s face was stable as bedrock and as unreadable as the wind. "Just because you're standing next to me doesn't mean I'm your friend." He sighed. "But as for problems, I tend to find that people wind up with problems exactly as large as they can handle. The trick is to break the big problem down into little, manageable steps."

"Huh. That's really deep. is that like, an eastern philosophy or something?"

Cable opened his mouth, then sighed. "Sure. Why not."

He felt like getting a drink afterall. He didn't, because Deadpool might need him any minute, but the temptation was stronger then he had expected.

“Give me a drink, please? Nothing alcoholic.” He compromised eventually. He drummed his fingers as the bartender fixed him a fruit spritzer, trying to be inconspicuous, then shook his head. “No. Actually, get me a whiskey. Neat. The more alcoholic the better.” Music just loud enough to insulate him from the rest of the boisterous crowd around him beat from hidden speakers.

A trendy club with pretensions of class wasn’t the place you’d expect to be the headquarters of an elite, old-fashioned society club with aims of world-domination, any more than it was where he would imagine an important business meeting would take place - not outside of a the cheesier sort of Hollywood movie, but this was where Shaw had come. Then the sirens started, and everyone came out of their own worlds long enough to start panicking. There was a rush to the exits.

"$#%&" Cable spat, then shouldered his way through the crowd, trying to find his way to the backrooms.


	15. Chapter 15

**Meanwhile…**

The interior of the ventilation shafts was painfully tight across the shoulders, dusty and claustrophobic. Deadpool was crawling on his elbows, unable to get much motion out of them given how little space there was, wriggling and bunching himself up for maximum traction, and managing to advance a few inches each push. There were a few branching passages, and Deadpool followed them when he felt like it, even though turning the corners required him to bend in ways that were even less comfortable then normal. When designing this place, those responsible had not been helpful enough to put in signposts directing him around, or one of those maps the classier establishment of parking garages had, so he was picking directions more or less at random, and hoping he was heading in the right way - though he had no idea what exactly he was looking for. And that he wouldn't get lost, run out of air and start hallucinating that he was a mermaid granting wishes to fishermen. If nothing else, that would be amateurish, and fishermen didn't seem like they'd be particularly exciting to hang out with.

Occasionally, he caught glimpses through grates of the backrooms of the club, which - from what little he could see, seemed to be full of atmosphere catwalks and big rusting vats of corrosive acid. He made a note to remember the place for later, in case he needed to create an arch-nemesis - though he'd gotten this far without needing one. Nothing for making the best class of nemeses like corrosive acid—especially if it was boiling.

"I should totally write a Yelp review about this place. Make it all popular and stuff." Deadpool said out loud as he continued to inch forward, the bulk of his cerebral energies trying to figure out why the hell a club needed giant vats of chemicals. He'd normally put it through to his head voices, but since the story wasn't being told from his perspective nobody would know - unacceptable, in other words. He kept his constant litany of complaints at the confinement, the dust, and the lack of air to himself, however. He didn't want to come across as a whiner.

"It's all nice and dramatic, though, so I guess that's cool, though it all looks kind of familiar. Maybe they're reusing old backgrounds or something." He continued, as he inched further. "Artists are lazy, and they suck, and you can tell them I said so." He continued. At last, he came to a grille, that overlooked a purposefully dark room that smelled of cigar smoke and had a big table for self-important types to scheme enigmatically over. He was no interior designer, but the whole set-up just screamed 'Important for plot reasons'. More successful then he could have dreamed, he peered through the slats, and sure enough he found that he'd found his man.

The room was obviously built for the purpose it was being used for. Books he would have bet money nobody ever read and only existed for the sake of impressing the sophistication of the host were racked with archive like precision along the walls. Soft light glowed from monitors, and also from a number of sealed, glass-topped caskets in front of the shelving. They reminded him of the protective, controlled environment units that museums and libraries used to display especially ancient and valuable texts.

The room was carpeted, and as he peered into the gloom, he could see four men sitting around the low table in their throne-like chairs. One had his back to him, but by his clothing he could tell it was Sebastien Shaw. The angle was wrong to get much of a look at two of the other men, though he had a feeling he recognised them all - he’d met just about everyone, it was the price of popularity. Facing him was a figure who he couldn’t quite make out, his features concealed by the darkness, who was using a hookah to inhale what was either tobacco or opium, and blowing smoke rings. They all had glasses of alcohol.

Well that was easy.

Sebastien Shaw was reclining on a well-upholstered chair, glad of the shadowy corners that left him and his guests nothing more then indistinct blurs. Just the same, Sebastien Shaw’s expression was as carefully neutral as he could school it to be, though he fumed inwardly. Though rationalisation was a second nature to him, the truth was that, of all the temporary alliances he’d made in his life, all the dangerous deals he’d struck for the sake of expediency, he had resented none more then this one - at least, none that he could recall. But the alternatives were all much, much worse then playing along, and so he did what he always did. Compromised, in order to protect his own investments and assets, all the things he’d worked so hard for so long on, all the means that had become the ends somewhere along the way.

Shaw had almost never come to Canada before. The Hellfire Club had built itself into a power by leveraging influence, and favour-trading. Few of their members lived in Canada, and none in Toronto but Gideon - the clubs owner - and even he was only staying in the city a short time, and had just wanted something to keep himself occupied with while he was there. But a little persuasion had left Gideon more then willing to offer him and his temporary allies use of the building. And Shaw had kept it open for business - he approved of that. He glanced to his right, where the first of the two men he was meeting was seated, then to the left.

"Well Mr Shaw, I've helped myself to some of your scotch, and I've seen the company you keep. Now why don't you give me your pitch, in your own words, and I'll make up my mind if I am convinced or not." Deadpool couldn't suppress a faint flinch at that voice. The voice, at least, hadn't changed much, unlike the man doing the speaking. He was an older, heavy-set man, stocky and running towards fat, but still tough. His features were deeply-lined and puffy, his hair and beard salt-and-pepper beard blended to iron grey, his eyes still bright behind his glasses. He was wearing a dark jacket and pants, along with a few of his medals. Some of them looked new, Deadpool didn't think the man had them back in the day. A part of him wanted to drop down and rip them off the man who wasn't fit to wear them. And then kill him, obviously - but preferably humiliate him first. Tear him down, and with him every twisted thing he stood for. And yet another part of him was still frightened, still cautious, still cringing. He wondered if you could get over what it was Stryker had done to him. To all of them.

"Well colonel, if nothing but out of curiosity you seem to have come."

Colonel William Stryker (retired), Special Projects Vice President of Testament Industries (retired), leaned across the table. "You don't call me colonel." he said, in a low, almost pleasant voice, but with a clear undercurrent of carefully harnessed and controlled rage. It was the kind of rage that soldiers learned to direct, the edge of rage that could keep you alive, and make you do things you had no idea you were capable of, things that didn't bear describing. The sort of rage that William Stryker had always possessed. Deadpool knew that tone. Shaw and whoever the other guy happened to be didn't seem to, but they'd probably learn. They always did. "Them's that do are mostly dead."

For a moment the room was pointedly silent, then the third presence spoke. "What you ask is ambitious, that much you cannot be faulted. But it serves your designs. Not Stryker's, and certainly not my own. Why should we subordinate ourselves to you?" Deadpool unconsciously licked his lips, then adjusted a uniform that suddenly felt too tight. He should probably be paying attention to what the man was saying, but he was to busy shivering at the sound of the mysterious figures voice. What a voice it was, a rolling baritone with just a hint of of an exotic, sexy accent, that spoke of culture and time. That voice made him think of melted chocolate, black silken sheets and mirrors on the ceiling. "It would be foolish beyond articulation to take you at your word that you have our best interests at heart."

"Understand, at least, that this proposed collaborative effort plays to all our advantages." Shaw said after a moments consideration, frowning furiously at Stryker, who for his part was sitting back, resting his chin on his hand, thoughtful. "The important thing, I believe we can all agree, is that the current state of affairs benefit nobody." Shaw continued. "Matters have to be taken to hand."

"I believe I made my feelings in regard to disassembling plain." Stryker said. "Mutants are a problem. On several different levels - ideologic, social, and practical. Do you disagree?"

Shaw's frown had become a glare. "Mutants represent something. We don't need to agree on what. But anything they are, anything they might someday be is besides the matter at hand. The current state of affairs are unacceptable. They are about to change, and I would like the two of your assistance."

"I understand why you would come to him." He indicated the human dismissively. "But not me."

"I don't like it either, believe me." Shaw responded, for a moment seeming almost to snarl, then his calm composure returned, and he cooly leaned back. "Distasteful as I find you, you have consistently gotten results, which is more then most in your line of work can claim."

Stryker clapped his hands together. "Well, I do believe that might be the first honest thing you've said to me since I got here." He said. "And so, let me be equally candid in return: I don't think much of you, or the cult you've set up around yourself. The two of us are natural enemies, and the only sort of peace there can be between us is a peace spent arming and preparing for the next war." The light reflected scarily on the lenses of his glasses as he spoke. "But just the same, your word is good, and opportunity like this is cause enough to put aside such things - at least in an immediate sense, or so I believe."

"For my part, I have little use for Xavier's dream for co-existence or Magneto's preparations for war. And I have less use still for your own visions of simply co-opting the world through established models and influence." There was a pause. Deadpool wished the other two would shut up, and the mysterious guy would talk more. That voice. MmmmMMMmmm. Like running your hands through a fur rug. It made his whole body feel sensitive, made him want to pin it (the voice) against the wall and run his tongue over it's (the voice's) collarbone in soft-candlelight. "Still, provide me with my choice of subjects, and allow me the freedom to pursue my own projects, and I'll be more then willing to play along."

Shaw started talking agin, and so Deadpool stopped paying attention. It all felt a bit ridiculous to the 'Merc with a Mouth'. Sure, these people were dabbling in some kind of vast conspiracy, but like most villain plans from guys like Shaw, the second-stringers who only showed up when the real interesting guys like Magnetto were otherwise occupied in other words, never really came across as something that would matter all that much to Joe Q. Citizen or Wanda X. Public.

Even if they somehow got away with it despite the best efforts of meddling kids, he doubted most civilians would even be aware of the fall out. To most people, getting to work and paying their taxes were far more important then whether or not the villain of the week got to take over the world. Sometimes it feels like all these guys were really just involved in a LARP that got out of hand, that all their costumes and powers and gadgets were just props. That despite all the talk, putting on a costume didn't give you any real moral authority. Despite everything, the world was as mundane as ever. Like if you swept all them out of it away in a year or so it'd just be forgotten. Life goes on around them, and which side who’s playing for or who is winning is really just a matter of book-keeping.

He sighed. Of course, measuring the weight of individual actions against the weight of social movements defeats the purpose of examining the individual in the first place. And layered over the top of what he supposed was an approximation of ordinary life was all the associated stuff. Technological miracles that never made it into the public sector, epic feats, heroic deeds, magic and stranger things still that nobody noticed or remembered, all fighting over this world of cities full of people who think social media and global warming and the so-called musician Kanye West are big, important deals.

And yet… and yet the world can't help but notice. Because while as long as things went well you barely even did notice, one day it wouldn't be. If there weren't superheroes, one day someone would try to destroy the world, and there'd be nobody to stop them. And when the debris fell, it would fall on all those average people.

Deadpool sighed.

It'd take a smarter man then he to work it out.

"I'll say this much for you, by all that's holy, you think big." Stryker sounded a little awed, a little eager. Maybe even a little won over. "What do you call this?"

"Falconback." Shaw said, folding his arms. "It is already funded, and already progressing. And with the assistance of the two of you, it will proceed all the faster. You can begin as soon as we finish this conversation."

Deadpool blinked. That wasn't the response he was anticipating. Maybe he should have been paying attention instead of making sweeping generalities about the medium, indulging a little navel-gazing, and pretending that there was a button inside his head that he could press rapidly to skip all the talking bits. He went back to listening, in the admittedly faint hope that one of them would repeat what they had just said, or better yet sum up the gist for him to overhear.

"Done." Shaw's face glowed with triumph, entirely missing the squinting glare of Stryker. "In less then a month, we will begin our engineered society, effectively cutting away mutants from the world. From there…"

"I am less then convinced. First, I require a demonstration of strength. Prove you are capable of that to which you boast, and if you do manage to impress me, I shall aid your efforts."

"Oh, you'll get your evidence, Stryker." Shaw replied. "You'll get enough even to sate you."

"I doubt that." Stryker replied. Then he smiled. "But I could stand to be proven wrong."

Deadpool, worried he might miss something else, had decided to record this, and reached for his phone, trying to remember which of his many pockets it was stored in, but the narrow confines had worked against him, and he fumbled the phone, which beeped loudly, slid through the grille and landed on the table, where, adding insult to injury, the playback function activated somehow. The three mysterious figures (well, one, he had a pretty good idea who two of them were) glanced at the phone, then up at the grille. "You've managed to contact the most-reasonably priced assassin in the northern hemisphere! I might not play by the rules, but I get results, dammit!" Came his voice from the message bank. "I can't come to the phone right now - I hope it's because my ex and my wife have decided I'm enough man to go around and I'm currently enjoying a threesome. Assuming that I'm right, and I haven't died of sexual exhaustion I might be some time. If you're one of my father figures looking to reconcile, press one. If you're one of my fans who is spectacularly attractive press two (if you’re not spectacularly attractive hang-up, the double standard is enforced here), if you'd like to hire my services press three, if you want a team-up press four, oh, and I should probably mention that I never actually check this function, so just text like a normal person you dinosaur *BEEP*."

Deadpool had thought it was funny when he recorded it, but he was rethinking that now. Neither Shaw, nor Stryker looked particularly amused - not that he trusted their senses of humour. They wouldn't know a joke from an internal injury.

But senses of humour were subjective, and his blown cover was not. Of course, this new development had to be dealt with through tact.

With nuance.

With subtlety.

"Boring conversation anyway." He muttered, then kicked out. The grille made a tremendous clanging sound as it crashed hard on top of the table. Deadpool pulled himself out of the narrow confines, perched up there for a moment in an outstanding display of balance and drew his swords, and all present could swear they rang as he drew them, _tzing_ , then leapt out of the ceiling, landing perfectly on the desk, the grille clattering on the floor beside him. "Gentlemen!" He announced, smiling through his mask. "Everyone in this room is going to die!"


	16. Chapter 16

Deadpool made the landing, crouching on the table, a sword in each hand. While he had them captivated, he figured he'd hit them with a classic of comedy. "Now who's on first?" He asked, glancing around the room, his gaze settling first on Shaw, “What’s on second,” then on Stryker, “And Idunno’s on third…” and finally…

Deadpool backed away so quickly he tripped over his own feet, as he saw the mysterious figure emerge from the shadows of the conference room, the shadows rippling the air around him, like mighty wings beating the air, or perhaps the _suggestion_ of wings.

He was unmistakable. The dark operatic cloak with a high collar leaving no chance of any sort of peripheral vision, lined with red silk that pooled with impossible elegance. The pale skin that hadn't known the touch of the sun across oceans of time, cool and perfect as a statue. The sinister black hair slicked back with a prominent widow's peak and sharp cheekbones, the diabolical goatee. The burning red eyes that hypnotically drew you in, the strong jawline and the powerful frame. Even the voice, a deep drawling, romantic with just a hint of an exotic, sexy accent. The heavy and rather gaudy ring on the finger he was gesturing with. Who else could it be?

Dracula.

Deadpool actually fell over, he was almost hysterical with terror. He might not be pretty, but he was far too interesting and developed to die! But that was the best case scenario, even with Cable at his back, to hold out for. A quick, relatively painless death.

But Deadpool could be realistic enough, at times. He knew that it was far more likely that the king of vampires would keep him alive for a long time, and do things to him that were not only as bad as Deadpool could imagine (which could be pretty bad), but as bad as Dracula could imagine - which had to be an order of magnitude worse.

They used to call him Vlad the Impaler, and that was before he became a vampire.

Deadpool took a deep breath. Well, if there was one thing he'd learned from papa Wilson (other then lessons by example of what not to do as a father), it was to get your licks in while you could, and dying the way he lived - an insurmountable annoyance, seemed somehow fitting.

"So shouldn't you be sparkling or something?" An oldie but a goodie.

"What?" Demanded the King of all vampires… Hang on a second. That accent was victorian british. And now that he thought about it, the sinister glowing gem implanted directly in the figure's forehead. Even the shadows were just the logical result of the room being insufficiently well-lit. And the beard was way too trendy for Dracula to bother with.

False alarm. It was only Mr Sinister.

Glad that he hadn't actually wet himself in this case of mistaken identity, Deadpool got to his feet with all the dignity he could find, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. Realising the speck wasn't so imaginary, and was in point of fact a spiderweb he must have gotten in the air vents at some point, he brushed again, a bit more insistently. Dignity. Right. He was sure he'd had more of it when he came into the room.

For a moment that seemed to extend into forever, nothing happened. But even an awkward moment can only stretch for so long, and at last, Shaw cleared his throat. "I expected Slade to do a better job of his inevitable betrayal." Shaw said dryly, an ornery, long-suffering look on his face. "But at least we're getting it over and done with." He glanced at the two guests. "Would one of you care to deal with this?"

Sinister gave Shaw a contemptuous look at being asked to fight his battles, but he got to his feet. It was unsettling to watch, he moved like liquid, flowing upright. No single limb seemed to stir, but suddenly he was standing, and moved towards Deadpool, still with that unearthly, liquid grace, red eyes blazing. He was far bigger then necessary, closer to seven feet then six. Why he felt the need to be a villain was a mystery - he could make a fortune playing basketball.

Deadpool wasn't intimidated. Mr Sinister was no Count Dracula. "Why does everyone assume something big is going down?" Deadpool asked, drawing his katanas. "Hey, for all you know, I'm here to join you. Maybe I want to defect."

"Such refreshing humour," Shaw said, rolling his eyes. "When you kill him, make sure you do a thorough job. I'm sick of hearing him speak already." He folded his arms. "It might even wipe the smug look off Slade's face for a moment, but I won't expect miracles."

"Oh, I am funny." Deadpool said. "Thank you for noticing. It's nice to be appreciated - I make it seem natural but it's actually something I have to work hard at. But just because I make you laugh doesn't mean I can't kick your arse." He took a step towards Mr Sinister. "This works one way, and it's not the way you are hoping. I hurt people, I don't get hurt. Welcome to the food-chain, bub." With Wolverine out of the picture, or due to be that way shortly (at least for the moment), that particular verbal tic was up for grabs, and he meant to claim it before someone else got the chance to. Maybe he could grab the catch-phrase as well - the best there is at what he did, whatever that was.

And then, Deadpool yelled an incoherent warcry or insult or something as he leapt towards what had been Nathaniel Essex long ago, with his both his swords held high. Mr Sinister didn't duck or try to block or anything. He just stood there and leaned into it. The left blade cut into the meat of his shoulder before glancing off his collarbone, the right cut right through his right shoulder and into his torso. Either Mr Sinister didn't notice, or he didn't care. His right arm, despite only loosely being connected to his body by a flap of meat, some skin, and his costume snaked up and and wrapped itself around Deadpool's throat, holding him effortlessly in place before his feet touched the ground, with two swords sticking out of his shoulders. "This is a farce." Sinister snarled. "I am all that I am, you are a thug with a pair of swords. Do you not appreciate the implicit hierarchy present here?"

That, it occurred to Deadpool, was actually a good question - what exactly could Mr Sinister do? Deadpool could beat anyone who'd been around long enough for people to take notice enough that their powers became common knowledge, but he'd had no idea to expect Sinister, Sinister didn't seem the type to give him a time-out and let him go do some research, and there were no guarantees there anyway - some people were clever enough to misdirect how their powers actually work. That said, for the moment Deadpool had Mr Sinister exactly where he wanted him, and taking advantage of that he drove his knee into the fork of his legs, and his sword into Sinister's torso.

Mr Sinister looked down at the sword, dropped Deadpool and then, snake-fast, his hand closed around the Merc with a Mouth's ankle and with a single wrench of his body he threw him spinning through the air.

There was no time to twist in the air or curl. Deadpool managed to get his arms around his head before he crashed into a room's wall and dropped limp to the floor. Through the red-grey mist in his head he succeeded in finding the strength to push himself, groaning, up onto his elbows and knees. 

Sinister's foot landed like the meteor that probably killed the dinosaurs despite what certain villains might claim between his shoulder blades and flattened him back to the floor, cracked sternum sending out ripping bursts of pain.

Deadpool spat out a mouthful of blood. Already, he could feel his body doing it's best to repair itself. "That all you got, you pansy?" He asked, like a small, puny, insignificant bug beneath a heel that nonetheless refused to be crushed.

"You haven't even begun to see what I am capable of." Sinister replied. He began to glow, throwing off light like a bonfire, a field of distortion, heavy particles of some dark matter flowing around him, a fractal-like edge formed of sparks flying off his body. "While I really do prefer not to resort to violence… that doesn't mean I'm not good at it."

Deadpool hesitated a moment, then decided that although interrupting him by keeping on fighting while he was showing-off might not be done in the better circles, it was better than letting Mr Sinister hit him with whatever he was getting ready. Flipping to his feet with an easy grace he feinted a kick, and when Mr Sinister instinctively moved his arm to block, brought his sword directly into his forehead, figuring when in doubt break the glowing gem. And people thought his brother was the one with the brains.

Sinister went down. He was up again in an instant, but not in time to deflect a following blow from Deadpool's weapon, which opened his throat and made a pez dispenser out of him. That didn't even slow him down. If Sinister even noticed, he obviously didn't consider it particularly important. The gem was not damaged. It wasn't even scratched. Damn.

“A good idea, but that doesn’t actually do anything. It’s just a piece of ornamentation.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Damn.” Deadpool stepped back. "Where is your weak-spot then?"

"I am not especially weak in any place."

"Oh. Well, do you have to be so creepy?" he asked after a moment. He thought about attacking again, but he could see that it wasn't doing any good, so why waste the effort? "Either close up the horrific gaping wounds or die, I don't care which."

"I could." Sinister admitted. "But I find refraining from doing so illustrates my point. You can't do a thing to me that will so much as slow me down."

"Well, fair point, but as it happens, I heal as well." Deadpool replied, then added cheekily "and even if it is just so many farts in a hurricane, it looks to me like I'm winning."

When Sinister moved towards him in that freaky flowing way, Deadpool slashed at him, but Sinister blocked with his forearm, and drove the palm of his right hand flat into Deadpool's chest, a tension-reflexive strike that martial artists had given all sorts of names, and all agreed it was a bad idea to be on the wrong end of. It was fairly sloppy as technique went, but given the power behind it, that was relative. Deadpool lurched, his ribs cracking. As he stumbled backwards, Sinister looped his left hand around Deadpool's right wrist, and whip-snapped it, forcing the katana out of the merc’s grip. It landed on the floor with a sad clatter.

Deadpool got his feet under him and kept at it. Sinister had closed tightly, and the mercenary head-butted him. It took a few tries, but Sinister didn't seem to care, so he tried taking a leaf out of Mike Tyson's book and bit Sinister's ear. As it happened, ripping an ear off with your teeth isn't as easy as it looks, but Sinister didn't seem to care about that either. Fortunately, all his squirming around managed to get him free anyway, which he took as a win, because he figured he needed one. Deadpool fumbled and drew his over-sized revolver, his broken right wrist forcing him to use his left hand, across his body. As soon as the pistol came clear of its holster, he shot from the hip - but Sinister wasn't impressed by the bullet - why would he be? Mr Sinister backhanded the gun out of his grip and sent it skidding away, bouncing once upon the table-top and across the room. A steel-hard fist shot out at Deadpool, who ducked left, and chopped a passing body-blow into Mr Sinister's ribs. Deadpool’s hands, trained and used to punishment though the might be, were already sore and bloody from punching a man with a physical composition more commonly found in steel beams, and his ability to heal wasn't quite done getting him back into tip-top shape yet. Sinister tried to get behind Deadpool, but the Mercenary caught him and clenched him in a choke hold. It would have finished the fight - if Sinister needed to breathe - or needed his throat at all, which the huge gaping wound suggested was not the case. And if Deadpool wasn't struggling with just one working hand - the other one taking it's time to heal.

By luck or by skill - given the way he was fighting it was difficult to tell, Sinister took the clean way to break the hold, a body throw that tossed Deadpool up and over him, and the merc crashed against the wall once more. He got slowly to his feet. His wrist was better now, but the rest of him wasn't in as good shape. The air smelled of blood. Some of it, a little of it, was his own. His fists were swollen and mangled. Blood seeped from his battered face, and pain made him see double. His skull throbbed from the blows it had taken. He was sure his nose was broken.

All that would heal soon, he supposed, though as he was taking hits faster then he was pulling himself together that wasn't going to do him much good.

And Sinister wasn't even really trying. He was just smashing Deadpool around physically, without even making much effort to apply himself to it in an effective manner. And what was worse, that was proving to be more then enough. Deadpool couldn't hurt him, and while he couldn't kill Deadpool, fighting like that at least, he could certainly hurt him - and that was just a waste of everyones time.

Deadpool got to his feet, and while he was at it he got his act together. So he couldn't beat Mr Sinister with guns, fists or swords. That could scarcely be called a new situation to be in. But there was one thing that had always held him through the worst of it, it was his way of finding a weakness in people who could spill him all over town if he let them. He just had to let his mouth do it's thing.

The trouble was, Sinister was a tad more cerebral then emotional, and any man with the mental fortitude to dress like that wasn't going to be put down by some jabs at his appearance. "No wonder you're such a second stringer, if this is how you fight." He said after a moment. That didn't get a reaction, but that was okay. Deadpool was feeling him out, getting an idea of his mental defenses before letting loose with some really devastating zingers that would (he hoped) have Mr Sinister begging for mercy.

"So does it bother you, at all, that you're mostly irrelevant to 'the struggle to protect a world that hates and fears you'? Is this why you are teaming up with these two losers?" Still no reaction. Well, aside from getting smacked across the room, but chances were that was going to happen again anyway.

"Why did they invite you anyway? Was Leap-Frog and Stilt-Man busy?" Sinister didn't register that either. And it was such a good line too. Well, time to break out the big guns.

"I'm sorry for sounding so dismissive. This is probably a big deal for you." Deadpool picked himself up. "I mean, this is the closest you've got to a real job in a long time, with your resume - you're not in any of the movies. And last time I checked, Nathanial Essex doesn't even qualify as a footnote in the serious study of evolution. Face it, you've spent two hundred years trying to prove theories that nobody takes seriously. The whole mutant gene thing has made people actually reconsider Lamarck, ridiculous as scientists find it, but your notes will never merit a reprint."

That hit a nerve. At once, Mr Sinister's airy condescension gave way to a sullen rage. "As though you know what you're talking about…"

"Actually, I'm the next best thing to an expert."

"What need have I for…" Sinister paused, and gritted his teeth. "I tire of this." He announced all of a sudden.

Deadpool definitely counted that as a victory, although he wasn't sure it would be one that would go well for him. Sinister, suddenly deadly calm, raised a hand, palm facing outward, and crackling energy, bright with a series of dark overlapping crackling dots erupted from his hand in a wave that rolled over him. Deadpool tried to dodge by throwing himself out of the way, but the energy curved after him, so that didn't work out all that well, and the energy tore through him. Deadpool screamed like a little girl. He screamed until he ran out of breath. Then he screamed some more. He tried to hang limp and play dead, but he was in so much pain he was physically incapable of stopping screaming. The energy coursed all around and all through him, and he did his best to shrink away, convulsing with pain, his knees buckling, still screaming, but it was relentless and merciless.

"You want a real physical confrontation? Fine. I'll indulge you." Sinister said as the energy continued to pour out of his out-stretched hand. First it began tearing away his suit, revealing more of him then most people wanted him to show. Then it started on his skin and flesh, stripping it away to nothing, then his muscle.

"If it interests you to know, what I am doing is shearing apart your atomic bonds," Mr Sinister told him, his voice calm and as scarily arousing as ever, Deadpool continuing to be ripped apart as he exposited. Normally, Deadpool appreciated this bragging-in-such-a-way-as-to-reveal-your-one-weakness, explaining-how your-powers-work-bit, but he wasn't in a position to get much use out of it given the power discrepancy at work. And he didn't know much physics anyway. "I am stripping your body apart atom by atom and molecule by molecule. Essentially, by balancing two opposing forces I have set into being around you a sustained reaction - a linear induction motor, focussed between two bipolar magnetic fields so that anything I should target - in this case that spectacularly resilient miracle of science that serves as your body - shall be rent asunder, pulled at the sub-atomic level in both directions simultaneously. In effect I am stripping you of your constituent atoms - I don't believe even you can heal from that, but I'm interested in finding out." He paused affecting consideration. "In truth this is a rare opportunity - normally it's spectacularly fatal, so if you have any salient data to contribute to broader knowledge, do try and scream it."

Deadpool was still screaming, though all he was expressing was pain and that was of questionable use to the scientific community, already nearly unconscious beneath the continuing assault of Sinister's frickin' laser beams. His arms and his legs were stripped to the bone, and that was going as well in an alarming rate. Tormented beyond reason, betaken of a weakness that took what once had been a identifiable and marketable character and left nothing behind, he almost hoped he would just submit to the nothingness toward which he was drifting. He didn't fool himself, there was no way he'd get to stay dead, but a while just getting to rest for a while while he waited to be reworked into the setting sounded good to him - better then suffering like this, at least. He and Death could hang out again, that sounded pretty good.

Sinister smiled tightly, and although it would not have seemed possible to Deadpool, the outpouring of energy actually increased in intensity. The sound of Deadpool's agony screamed through the room, the murderous brightness of the flashes was overwhelming. "Thanos. I recognise his work, I've seen it before a few times - though I've never had the opportunity to study it like this. While I cannot speculate what motivated him to make you immortal…"

"There was a girl involved." Deadpool forced out through the screams of soul destroying pain. "He couldn't handle the competition."

"Well, if you do manage to cling to existence as nothing but a few scraps of hydrogen, no doubt sentience will have to be redefined." Sinister replied, raising his other hand. What was left of Deadpool's body slowed, wilted, finally crumpled under the hideous barrage. He stopped moving altogether. At last, he appeared totally lifeless. Sinister hissed maliciously. "The physical trauma too much to handle? I suspect that Thanos shall prove to be better at this sort of thing than myself, you will survive beyond even these ministrations, but as it happens…"

Sinister managed to intensify the power all the more "…I am more then willing to put it to the test. You can try me again when you learn some manners. And how to reconstitute your physical form from absolutely nothing."

And then a gunshot rung through the air, as the door exploded inward. Nathan Summers floated into the room, his body wrapped in pure telekinetic force, his right eye blazing with power, his clothing leaving no curve and dip of his perfect physique to the imagination, the rifle that was Deadpool's one true love cradled delicately in his arms. "Looks like I made it in time. Now back your %&@# down." Cable growled, flipping the rifle over his hands in a magnificent John Wayne impression to recock it.

Mr Sinister did no such thing. Instead he smiled, rather creepily, still a mess from all the hits Deadpool has scored, and lifted his hands to send the energy at Cable instead. Cable responded with raw telekinetic force, and the surge of power met in mid air explosively, the energies smashing through the room turning the table to splinters, smashing Stryker against a wall hard enough to leave an imprint, and sending what was left of Deadpool bouncing all around. The two of them strained, trying to overwhelm the other, but neither could gain any advantage. Sebastien Shaw got to his feet and cracked his knuckles, obviously planning on interfering, but with a negligible flick of his mind, Cable lifted him up, and held him suspended, unable to do a thing but hang in place, where his powers wouldn't do him the least bit of good.

"What a specimen. What a specimen." Mr Sinister was babbling, eyes alight with a lust to claim, to possess. Cable himself was all steely determination. Sebastien Shaw had tried flailing with his arms and legs, but when that failed to get him down, he simply hung there limply, fuming silently to himself at the indignity, and wondering how he was going to salvage this, or failing that make it somebody else's problem.

Wiliam Stryker decided he'd seen enough, and got to his feet, planning to make his exit. He didn't make two steps before he felt a presence leaning against him. "Where do you think you're going, Willie?" Deadpool whispered in a voice still hoarse from all the screaming into the old man's ear, and a part of Stryker wondered how Deadpool had managed to stab the point of his knife through three layers of clothing but stop before before cutting flesh. The least amount of pressure, and it would slide into his kidney, and he'd suffer a painful death. "After all these years, I think you and me really should play catch-up."

Stryker went very still, but his eyes flickered malevolently. Deadpool only smiled all the wider, in a manner that - had anyone seen it - they would comment on his uncanny resemblance to his older brother. He wasn't looking too good, his body was trying to rebuild itself, but he didn't have the body mass (anymore) and so was doing it's best regardless to cut corners to make up the biomass - how often does one really use all the squishy bits inside their torso?

"And what now? An apology, perhaps?"

"Now I hurt you until I feel better." Deadpool replied, and the knife pressed into him, just a few inches. "Tell me, is this where the begging starts?" he asked him, as Stryker's face went white and he sank to his knees, Deadpool following the motion and keeping a good grip on the knife still embedded in him. "Is this where you promise me that 'If I let you go, you'll drop a few more cryptic, tantalizing hints about Wolverine's alleged backstory'? Because guess what? I don't care. I'm the complete package as I am - who cares what you might have done to me while I was unconscious." Deadpool said. "It's enough to know that I am most certainly legally distinct from a mutant. The only other thing I care about is watching you leak all over the floor."

Stryker's face was white, and he gurgled a little when he chuckled. "Another wash-up blaming me for their problems?" Stryker said, his voice shaking a little with pain. blood was welling up from his side where Deadpool had slid in the knife. "You volunteered. You begged me to save your life." Stryker hissed, clutching at the side of his stomach as though trying to hold in the blood, close to the wound. "And didn't I?"

"I trusted you, did your dirty work, and all you wanted was a weapon." Deadpool replied, "Which is all fine - it's all I wanted to be. No, it's not what you made me into. It's that you sewed my mouth shut. Do you have any idea how many awesome disses I wanted to get off, and couldn't? I was in the best form of my life, you'd think I was Arnold Schwarzenegger with all the one-liners I was coming up with, and I couldn't say them! I'll never forgive you for the couple of hours I spent screaming insults in my head that nobody else could appreciate."

He leaned close, until he was breathing in Stryker's ear. "That was the first time I appeared in a movie too! You almost spoiled my big break in showbiz, you unconscionable bastard!" He yelled at the top of his voice directly into Strykers ear, then drove the knife in all the way. Stryker made a faint indrawn gasping noise.

Deadpool stepped back, watching him bleed. "Oh, and for the record? You like to present yourself as a man-of-the-people, a champion of the common man, but all you really are is a paranoid mess terrified of a changing world, trying to cut off the bits that don't fit. This isn't revenge, it's me putting you down because the world will be better off without you." He added, because if he just watched a man die slowly without justifying it in some kind of halfass way he'd lose the sympathy of his audience, then laughed. Stryker twisted and pulled out a gun, turning and aiming it at Deadpool with enough speed and competence to take most people unprepared. Deadpool, still laughing, kicked it out of his hand. "That's it? No cutting edge tech? You must be having an off day. Oh Willie, sorry to squash you're hollow defiance, but I just survived most of my soft-tissues being atomized. You're going to need a lot more gun then that." He said, reaching for his sword, then remembering he'd left it in Mr Sinister. With a small sound of frustration, he glanced around, spotted where he'd dropped the other one, and walked over to retrieve it. "You just lie there and keep bleeding, I'll make it quick. Well, quicker, anyway."

Meanwhile, the battle between Cable and Mr Sinister was taking place in a whirling storm of energy, the two of them throwing everything they had at one another. Cable had more raw power, but Mr Sinister was far better at finding creative uses for what he possesed, and far more tricks and abilities to draw on. 

Sinister was throwing his arms around like an insane music conductor, as he threw around more energy trying to break the stalemate. Cable was still, tense with concentration, one hand resting against his brow. Despite the clear strain, he wasn't slackening in the least. Sinister, however, was still smiling. "Magnificent." He told Cable. "You are the culmination of my lifes work, you know. All I have worked for, all I have sacrificed, have reached a kind of perfection in you. Such terrible and beautiful magnificence."

"Don't try to give me daddy issues. I think if one more psychiatrist hears about them, the entire occupation will collectively commit suicide." Cable replied dryly.

"Your father? Nothing so base. I admire you, your structural perfection, your purity of purpose, even your mind is possessed of such a singular drive." Sinister responded. "And I shall, in time, posses all those things. We shall continue this soon. But for now, I have so much to do." There was a flash of light, and he was gone. A moment later, Stryker and Shaw vanished as well.

Deadpool glanced at his sword, then shrugged. He'd really wanted to kill someone too. "After all that explaining, I'm still really unclear on what powers he actually has and what they do." Deadpool said after a moment. "So did we win?"

Cable shrugged. "Well, we didn't lose." He paused. "Though I'll be damned if I can figure out what it is we achieved."

"We're calling it a draw." Deadpool said after a moment.

"Agreed."

"Though I wish I at least got to kill Stryker."

"No arguments from me."

"So now what? I mean, all that information gathering we just did can't have been too important. I mean, THE WATCHER didn't appear." He paused. "Though why would he? This issue is all old news. Wolverine gets beaten up so often it's like watching reruns, and the rest has been nothing but cameos. We should probably get out of here, huh?"

Cable glanced around. "I suppose it's too much to hope for that they have a convenient file or something lying around we can use for evidence?"

"Not to mention ridiculously contrived. That's why we have a guy with absurd psychic powers, who has access to something called the infonet. So we don't need to be detectives."

"My powers might make things easier, but not that much. Those three all know how to keep psychics from getting too much from them, at least quickly, and as for…" He paused. "Do you hear ticking?"

Deadpool looked at him, then sighed. "I suppose it's a classic for a reason." 


	17. Chapter 17

They emerged just in time to watch the structure that was Gideon's pride and joy sway against the crimson dawn, sparkling in the growing light, then abruptly crash into shining shards as it collapsed into itself. Dusting themselves off, and glad that the collateral damage hadn't pulled them into it, Deadpool held up his hand for a high-five. After a moments consideration, Cable reciprocated, feeling the merc with a mouth had earned it. All this time, Deadpool's power had been doing it's thing - sealing ruptures, regrowing the missing bits his internal organs depended upon to get anything done, putting the maximus back in his gluteus. He was almost his old self again. He wasn't too keen to learn where the extra body mass came from, but he'd never asked before, and figured it was fine remaining a mystery.

"Well, I guess we can forget about finding physical evidence now." Cable said, shaking his head, as he half-heartedly shoved aside a piece of rubble. "Though I suppose if we're lucky they'll think we were taken care of."

"Ha. That's a joke. Anyone who can be killed so easily by a remotely activated explosion is in the wrong line of work."

"I still have no idea if we accomplished anything."

"We got to beat up some badguys." Deadpool paused. "At least, I assume they were the badguys, it's possible we were. It's so hard to tell in this morally elastic time of contempt, given it's stopped being the good guys hit the bad guys and started being a kind of professional wrestling approach complete with jobbers, where societal issues and paradigms are… I'm just %$#@ing with you, they were badguys."

"Sure. But did we stop them?"

"I hope not. If we did, what are we going to do tomorrow?"

Cable sighed, but supposed he couldn't blame Deadpool for not grasping the seriousness of the situation, given how evasive he'd been actually describing it. There were too many factors at work, too many unknowns in play. There was only one sensible move to take."I'm going to go get some perspective. Figure out a fresh angle of attack." He said after a moment. "When I have a strategy that might actually work, I'll come get you." He paused. "Chronology might get a bit complicated, but if it happens retroactively, then thanks in advance."

"Plan, schman. Beat the crap out of 'em while yelling a lot. It's in every movie for a reason - it's a classic."

"And in the meantime can I rely on you?"

"I don't like it."

"Wade…"

"I don't like it." He sighed. "But I'll do it. I'll spy on my brother. If he ever finds out, he'll take it personal and never forgive me, but some things are more important then subjective morality and the feelings of the main characters. Like the survival of the entire human race. I'll play along."

Cable clasped his arm. "You're a little rough around the edges, but when it counts you're the best man I've ever known. And I've known some great ones."

"Right back at you." Deadpool replied, then went for the hug. Cable was a little perturbed, but returned it. It was good to have friends.

"I missed you."

"Yeah, I missed you too."


	18. Chapter 18

Slade snapped awake when his internal clock told him it was time to, without ceremony, or any real transition. One moment he was lying down asleep, the next he was fully conscious and getting to his feet. Nothing special there. The dull, afterglow of pain where his eye used to be had woken him that way every morning for a long, long time.

Dawn light, already cool and thin, speared in through the gaps in the curtains. He had slept naked. He pulled on his slacks of soft brown kid-skin, socks and army-issue boots, and went over to the window bare-chested. A hard rind of sun was cresting up over the city. The windows weren't designed to open, but a bit of work took care of that, and he sighed in the cool breeze.

He’d been having the strangest dream. His body felt stiff and unresponsive. He stretched a little, and tried to remember his soothing dream. He wasn't sure, but he thought perhaps his wife and kids had been in it. Water under the bridge, perhaps, but nonetheless, empty, hollow comfort was better then nothing at all, and it was all he got these days - and that little only if he was lucky.

He turned, and stretched. Normally, he'd work in some exercise, but the room wasn't exactly equipped for that. Instead he began stretching, and slid into a few forms of yoga. His brother's idea, working on his flexibility, and he'd found it suited him. He was just beginning to feel calm when his brother burst in. "Okay. Before you turn on the news or read the paper or whatever, first let me tell you my side of the story."

Slade sighed, but then got to his feet, and took a seat, adjusted himself until he was more or less comfortable, then shook his head. "One thing. There was one thing you had to do."

"It was totally not my fault. They started it, and the media is biased and controlled by the liberal agenda and will blow it all out of proportion, and besides, it all turned out fine in the end. But on second thought we probably don't have time to go over it now because Alpha Flight is almost definitely looking for me."

"Alright. I'm listening."

"Did you miss the part about us not having time?"

"No." Slade replied. "I ignored it. Now start at the start."

"Well fine. But consider yourself warned - if Narwhal, Dragon, Northstar or someone does come crashing in looking to punch us a whole lot, I'm sure not going to be the one to pay for the window. Anyway, so I got attacked by Sabertooth last night." Deadpool began. Slade raised an eyebrow, but just listened. "For some reason, he wanted a piece of this, and so after smacking him around like an uppity seven year old, I decided to pay his boss a visit, and went after Shaw." Slade's eyebrow was rapidly approaching his hairline. "So I snuck into his club, where he was up to all sorts of no doubt diabolical… Alright, could you interrupt me already?"

Slade stirred a little. "I'd prefer to ask my questions at the end."

"Please don't do that. It puts me off my stride."

"Just say what you need to."

"Come on, just ask a few questions. This listening politely is just the worst."

"Well, if it matters that much to you. Why did want to kill Shaw, and how did you know he owned a club?"

"Dunno. Just felt like killing." Deadpool replied. "And everyone knows Shaw owns a club." That seemed good enough for Slade, who made a motion to continue.

"Anyway, so I got into a fight with him and Mr Sinister, and blew up their headquarters."

Slade still wasn't reacting. Wade Wilson had no physiological need to perspire, but he permitted his body to do so given the tension he was suddenly feeling. "And then I made my way back here. And that's why I think we should leave this part of the world. Like now."

Slade looked at him levelly. "Sabertooth is in town." He said at last.

Deadpool blinked. "Well yes?" He coughed. "There was a bit more to my story then that." He'd pointedly avoided mentioning Cable, which led to some glaring plot-holes, but Slade, as usual, was going off on his own tangent. By this point it shouldn't even surprise him - but somehow it did.

"Give me a dollar." Slade said, his voice still low and getting very dangerous.

"Brother, you're starting to scare me." Deadpool admitted, but handed him a few coins. He had no idea where this was going, and wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Slade took them without looking and put them in his pocket without even bothering to check he hadn't been short-changed- a first for him, then grabbed a duffel bag, and looked at it thoughtfully, considering the guns. Then he put it back down, and walked over to the kitchen, where he removed a single kitchen knife, and began sharpening it, honing the edge with practiced ease until the sharpness was almost suicidal. He blew on it approvingly, then glanced at Wade. "You start a fight with my brother, then you start a fight with me as well." He said, his tone of voice disturbingly neutral. "Sabertooth will be good practice for his jackass brother."

"You already beat him. And that's a misconception, they're not actually related. I don't think - it's hard to tell. If they are, it's more like…" Deadpool shrugged. That continuity was too confused even for him to follow, it made even the Summers family or Hawkmans history tame by comparison. "Look, this really isn't…" He trailed off. There would be no talking down Slade. "I thought we were trying to avoid making a scene." He said at last.

"Oh don't worry about that. This won't take very long at all." Slade assured him, heading out. "And trust me, I'm not going to stop at a beating."


	19. Chapter 19

In the hotel corridor, a freckled young man in a smart navy blue blazer, the hotel uniform, was making something of a fuss outside one of the doors on the second room.

"Hey! Number 143!" The young man was yelling, banging on the door as loudly as he could, filled to bursting with belligerence. "Hey! No cooking in these rooms! Hey! I'm talking to you!"

The smell might have been cooking, but probably was not. But the young man had never been closer to a battlefield than his computer screen, so he had no way of recognising that scent.

There was no reply at all. "Hey! Don't ignore me. Don't act like I'm not here! I want to talk to you! Now come out!"

With slow, ponderous dignity, the door opened inwardly while the young man was fumbling for the key. The young man looked up. And up further. All the way up. The man who opened it was too big to fit in the frame, towering above the uniformed man by a good half a meter, and was dressed in a big scary suede coat. He was so big his presence made the whole hall seem out of proportion, the doors, windows, stairs and hotel employee who a moment ago had been much more belligerent all looked like small versions designed for the use of children. The size was bad enough alone, but the man was terrible. He looked like what heavy-metal enthusiasts wished they could, with his barbarian long hair and features that would have been appealing if they weren't so jagged and feral. His eyes were burning with all the horrors of the jungle, all the wilderness from which man had clawed his way out of in past ages but could never truly escape. He stood hunched in a threatening lean that was so natural to his body language, his eyes narrowed in a legacy of aggression too complete to contemplate. "Yes?" He asked politely, his voice a graceless avalanche of syllables, low and scary and hitting something primal in the young man, who was already backing away. It spoke of violent death, of red tooth and claw, and awakening racial memories that brought about a painful tightening in his bladder, and an urge to climb a tree and cower.

"Oh, it's just that, ah, some - some of the other guests are, are complaining and… the smell, you see…" He babbled, only dimly remembering what had brought him here in the first place.

"I'll talk to them." The big man smiled. His teeth seemed far too large, and far too sharp to fit in his mouth.

"No! No, ah, that's not necessary. Just finish up what you're doing, and…" He made a futile gesture. "Maybe open a window or something."

"You're sure? It's no trouble." It was not a friendly, or reassuring smile, and yet how could it be?

"No, no, I'll handle it. Ah, yes. Yes, I'll be going now."

"No problem." Sabertooth closed the door and chuckled. That was almost entertaining. But the door didn't close. A heavy combat boot was blocking it ajar.

The hotel employee collapsed with a sigh so soft even he didn't realise he'd made it, a pinched nerve interrupting the blood-flow to his brain and knocking him out. "Better come out." This voice was deadly soft and deadly serious.

Sabertooth opened the door again. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Deathstroke? Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes." He grunted. "What the hell are you doing here? Don't you have senators to kill or something?"

Slade's mask was without expression, but his voice was not. "I need to take some 'me' time." Slade laughed. He was unarmed but a simple kitchen knife, which he was casually throwing up in the air so that it spun and caught the light, then catching between his thumb and fore-finger, half an inch behind the tip. He was doing it without looking, without so much as glancing it's way.

It was showing off a little, but Sabertooth was the same problem as Wolverine. Guns weren't of much use. You could put five rounds in the skull of Sabertooth, and he'd still eat you before he even healed. Preparation gave you an edge, but Sabertooth'd push through it. The only way to beat them was to do it over, and over, and over again. "A busman's holiday, if you will."

But repetition wasn't something Slade had ever struggled with. "So, I don't suppose you want to borrow a cup of sugar?" The mutant asked, then pounced. Sabertooth acted without thinking, counting on the raw instinct that had carried him across countless conflicts to see him through. He roared and bore down on the mercenary with the force and inevitability of an avalanche.

Slade stepped back, standing sideways, moving his arms back behind him and grinding his feet into the ground. He turned towards the impending disaster, twirling his improvised weapon idly with marvellous dexterity and a seasoned flair, then ducked under the mutant's lunging blow, cutting first his achilles tendon then through his wrist all the way to the bone, leaving Sabertooth's foot and hand hanging numb and unresponsive at the end of his limbs. He straightened, fended off the mutant's other brawny arm, then placed a hand against Sabertooth's chest and gave him a gentle push. Sabertooth toppled, unable to balance over-extended on one foot.

"Apologise." Slade growled, stepping forward so he was looming above him, threw the knife up in the air and caught it in his other hand, like a juggler. He wasn't entirely unable to hide his amusement.

"What?" The mutant blinked, trying to centre himself. "I haven't…"

"Not to me. To him." Deadpool had come this far, but was doing his best not to be involved. He'd already done this fight, and he wasn't interested in rehashing old material. "My brother. You attacked him. Apologise now."

"Go to hell." Sabertooth growled, getting his feet back under him and coming in low.

"Been to hell. Despite it's reputation it's undeserving of all the press, believe me." Slade replied, rolled his remaining eye, then broke off the tip of his knife in Sabertooth's bull neck, punched him in the kidney, jammed the broken knife into a nerve cluster around the mutant's shoulder, then grabbed a handful of his barbarian mane of hair and slammed him face first into the dry wall, driving his head through it and out the other side. "Apologise." Slade repeated, sounding a tad more measured. He planted his foot into a sensitive part of Sabertooth, ground it making him howl, then tugged what was left of the knife free free. It relinquished its place with a sickly sucking sound and a spray of dark arterial blood, the tip still stuck somewhere inside. Slade glanced at what was left of the blade, already blunt and scarcely any use, stuck it in the wall where he could recover it if it looked like it might be some use, then skipped backwards, settling into a defensive stance.

Sabertooth pulled his head out, drywall coating his hair like chalk, and roared. He had to stop to spit out a tooth knocked free from pulped gums. He powered forward with wild abandon, swinging his arms in a vicious roundhouse punch that made the air whistle, barely cognisant of Slade's shifting stance. Slade stepped out of reach, scooting across to the other side of the corridor. Sabertooth charged after him, which was a mistake. Slade wasn't as strong as him, but he was strong, and knew how to handle anyone foolish enough to over-extend. 

Sabertooth's burly frame collided with the wall at a speed human bones were never meant to withstand. The bricks cracked from floor to ceiling. The glass window shattered. Sabertooth's spine went too. Slade paced towards the towering figure of the mutant casually, nonchalant in his motions, a swagger in his step. "If you don't do as I tell you, I might just start to get nasty." He said. "My brothers over there. Why don't you tell him just how awful you feel? It might do your health some good."

Deadpool was still keeping out of this, but he still managed a cheery wave.

Sabertooth's twisted spine straightened itself out, and he lunged again. Slade was expecting it, but Sabertooth had a bit more of his measure and it was a feint. Slade corrected quickly, but not fast enough, and Sabertooth's claws ripped through kevlar and chainmail like wet tissue paper, carving deeply into his chest, right where Wolverine had a few days ago. Slade slammed his forehead into Sabertooth's nose to make him back off, then drove his fist into Sabertooth's throat, making him choke and gag. He knew he should stay at a distance, this sort of thing was more Sabertooth's speciality then his, but he was just having much too much fun. Besides, Sabertooth was only dangerous when he started to think, if you could keep him angry the fight would go all your own way.

Sabertooth retaliated, and so did he, then Slade went for the throat again. Sabertooth caught his wrist, but Slade got control and broke the mutants hold at the thumb instead, then broke his thumb as well. Sabertooth tripped him, and the two went down in a tangle of powerful limbs, punching, gouging and jabbing with elbows and fists. He noticed a gleam in Sabertooth's neck as his healing muscles forced the metal point Slade had left in there out, and Slade hit it with the side of his hand, sticking the metal right back in. In retaliation, Sabertooth's fist hit Slade in the kidneys, hard enough to drive him into the floor, and his thumbnail dug into Slade's cheek, carving right through the mask, slicing neatly through flesh up towards his eye-socket. Slade didn't even flinch.

He couldn’t see out of that eye.

When they got to their feet, yet another vicious exchange later, the two of them both backed away and took a breather. Slade cracked his neck, ignoring the blood streaming down the thick gash in his leg, and the three along his chest, gained when his opponent slashed at him as he swung. He winced a little at the face, however. Sabertooth popped his shoulders back into place with a jerky, awkward shrug, and started to reset his shattered elbow. He rubbed his face to try and check his features were all where they should be. "You got game, old man." He grudgingly admitted.

"You're not all soft yourself." Slade replied with an idle shrug. He was giving a lot worse then he was getting, but he wasn't having as much fun as he was when this started. Something about Sabertooth having started grinning. Standing there covered in more blood then the human body should decently contain, with sucking chest wounds and broken bones, grinning. Slade didn't like being grinned at. It was up there with being laughed at. Calm, he told himself. Don't get angry. Passion is the enemy of efficiency. "You know, I always liked you better then the others. Call me romantic or whatever, but there is an honesty about you that I respect. Why did you have to go after Wade and mess it up?" He replied with verve and brio, letting Sabertooth play for time to heal as though it didn't make a hair of difference.

Sabertooth shrugged. He could actually feel his bones knitting and the blood retreating from semi-congealed scabs. His head twisted involuntarily as his vertebrae slid into their niches, and strength returned in a rush as his body reproduced the three litres of blood lost through his chest and throat wounds. "Seemed the call to make at the time. Wild animal, remember? Now you done beating your chops?"

Slade seemed to consider this. "Figure I'll give you one last chance for old times sake. Apologise."

"Blow it out your arse."

Slade nodded once, walked over to the wall and reclaimed what was left of the knife. It was blunt now, and missing about an inch of blade where the tip had snapped off (and was still in Sabertooth's shoulder, somewhere). Slade shifted his grip on it, weaving idle figures in the air in an absent-minded way, fixing his one eye upon the top of Sabertooth's sternum. It gave a clear view of the body without the distraction of the opponent’s eyes. "Alright." He said, no longer playing around. "Have it your way. I guess I'd better kill you."

The moment he'd finished talking, Slade stepped forward and snapped the knife out, wicked-quick, at Sabertooth's throat, but Sabertooth was quick as well, and managed somehow to get a hand up and the first stroke only split his palm in half. Sabertooth only bared his teeth and forced his hand further along the length of the knife, until he could grasp Slade's hand, gripping hard enough to trap the blade and crush the fingers painfully. Delicate bones snapped within Slade's hand, and he couldn't suppress a small grunt as Sabertooth drew himself up to his full height, towering above the mercenary grinning toothily. "Oh, someone's going to die alright. It's all over now, you slippery bastard. Bar the screaming of course."

His piece said, his head darted forward, jaws snapping open. Slade stepped back, letting Sabertooth over-extend yet again, and Slade still had a hand free. He grabbed the big mutant's ear and pulled off as much of it as he could get a grip on, making the big mutant flinch, and in that involuntary opening he cut the knife out of Sabertooth's hand. His own hand was a mess, but he still had one. Tossing the knife to his good hand, he went in low then sliced upward, splitting the crotch of Sabertooth's leather pants, dividing his scrotal sac then drawing the knife up and out in a long, buttery stroke. Sabertooth's testicles, suddenly untethered from each other, swung back against his inner thighs like heavy knots on the end of an unravelling sash-cord. Blood stained his pants around the zipper. For a moment the mutant felt as if someone had jammed a handful of ice into his crotch… and then the pain struck, hot and full of ragged teeth. Deadpool winced in sympathy. Sabertooth was tough, but there were human limits. He screamed, in a noticeably high voice, hands between his legs. His pants had turned bright red almost to the knees. Slade took the knife, flipped it so the blade was facing downward, and drove it into Sabertooth's right eyeball with an audible pop. Sabertooth didn't have the air to manage a scream, but did make a breathless noise and clapped a hand to his face. He was in no fit state to fight back now.

Slade ran his hand into Sabertooth's long hair as the mutant fell to his knees, jerked his head back so that Slade was the only thing holding him up, then slammed him face first into the floor as hard as he was capable. The force of Slade and the weight of Sabertooth's body drove the knife in far further, until the broken tip had punched through his skull and was protruding out the back of his head. Slade then lifted his foot, and stomped it down as hard as he could on the back of Sabertooth's neck, breaking it like a farmer dealing with a rabbit.

For a moment, Slade was still raring to go, not realising the fight was over. Then he let out a long sigh, releasing his bundled aggression and the considerable exertion that had flooded his body, and took an equally deep breath, settling down. "You were right. All over." He told Sabertooth, then glanced at his brother. "I think so, anyway. Think he'll stay down?"

Deadpool - who had been keeping out of the fight at least - hardly knew what to do about being acknowledged, but glanced at the mutant. "Well, I would." He admitted. "And I'm at least as crazy as he is, so…" As dangerous lunatics go, Deadpool was remarkably well-adjusted, or at least resigned to his condition.

Slade sighed again. "Good." He said, then looked down at himself critically. "&%$@, I'm a mess."

"Well, he definitely took the worst of it. And isn't that what matters?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is." Slade agreed. He paused a moment. "I think I'll go cleaned up. Keep an eye on him, will you?"

"What, in case he does some really exciting bleeding?"

"On the off chance he gets up." Slade made a fist with his left hand which was alright, then opened his hand, stretched a little, and nudged Sabertooth with his foot, but the big mutant was empathetically not moving. Slade took a deep breath, still coming out of the fight, then removed what was left of his jacket and body armor, shrugging out of it, leaving himself wearing nothing beyond his singlet.

Deadpool raised an eyebrow, though he couldn't help but be impressed. Slade was in absurdly - even ludicrously good physical condition, even before you considered his age, even by the standards of superheroes - he was built like a classical depiction of a gladiator. He had flawlessly chiseled pecks and stunning abdominals, with a noticeable heft to his deltoids and immaculately defined arms. His forearms were nearly the size of his biceps, and he had a thick, powerful neck, a build marred only by the scars all over his hands, and his arms, and everywhere, all of them faded away to ancient white lines, of the sort you mostly only can find on some lifelong bikers.

You had to really look hard, and know what you were looking hard for, to see the subcutaneous reinforcement to his muscles, the organic titanium fibers woven into his sinews, the copper wires where veins should be. Most superpowers that were designed, rather then an unlikely collaboration of factors and happy accident, don't come about by a single chemical and a one-time treatment. There were maybe six inches in Slade's big frame that hadn't had been rebuilt.

"Good idea. You have looked better." Deadpool mentioned.

"At least I'm still pretty." Slade retorted, staring down at himself as well, running a finger over his body, tracing the gouges the fight had left in him. Deadpool replied with a very rude gesture, that Slade ignored, though Wade was privately forced to agree. It really was a shame about the personality.

After due consideration, Slade decided he really wasn't much worse for wear, but it all added up. He sighed again, and stepped into a hotel room at random, nodding politely to the city council-member and escort he had been in the process of negotiating business with before the sounds of violence had made him decide he'd rather cower under the bed then commit a scandal (the man screamed and curled into a fetal position, the escort didn't even flinch, and neither did her cold and empty eyes), and then walked into the bathroom. He looked at his face fixedly in the wavery, spotted mirror for thirty seconds or more, then shook himself back to awareness with a physical jerk. He was spacing out again, losing his iron grip on the present. He had to stay focused - find his center. Or he'd start making mistakes, and sooner or later he'd die. Sooner, if he was going to go picking fights with people like Sabertooth.

Everything seemed right. He moved the way he always had, never missing a step or a trick. It was all in the right place.

And yet he still scarcely recognized himself.

He opened the medicine cabinet, favoring his left hand, and glanced at the odd little collection of items in the chest - things previous tenants hadn't thought worth stealing from the look of it: two disposable razors, one used (glancing up at the mirror, he mimed cutting his throat with it, it felt natural, inevitable almost, then tossed it into the bin); bottles of make-up; a compact; several wedges of fine-grained sponge, ivory-colored where they had not been stained a slightly darker color by face-powder; some gauzy bandages, some disinfectant, some of what he took to be thread, then realized was dental floss. Not exactly everything you'd need in an emergency, but good enough he supposed. He wasn't hugely concerned. First he began pushing the bones in hand back into place, letting his healing factor take care of the breaks. Besides that, his injuries were not particularly severe, and there was no chance they would turn septic; he was more or less immune to infection. He went through the motions, methodically treating himself, dealing with every scratch Sabertooth had caused in turn. His hands were steady, though his right throbbed nastily. This did not particularly upset him; he was a little sore, but Sabertooth had been beaten so severely he'd never forget it. He found himself staring at himself in the mirror again, and made himself look away, finished quickly then left the room.

The councilman was still cowering under the bed, either praying, crying or talking nonsense, Slade wasn't entirely sure. The escort had come to the conclusion that Slade wasn't planning on killing them, and was getting dressed. Slade ignored both of them.

Stepping back into the hallway, he tossed the supplies to his brother. "Get my back?"

"Sure thing." Deadpool replied, pleased despite himself to finally have something useful to do in this scene. Being a human rifftrax was all very well, but he was used to stealing the show, and the comic relief was very much a consolation prize. He winced a bit after seeing just what he had in the way of equipment, then shrugged and got on with it. His brother was pretty much all scar tissue already, so what did it matter?

"You know, you fight in such a brutal way it makes merely dirty fighting almost admirable." Deadpool said, with no small amount of admiration. "You just smacked him around like he was married to Hank Pym." Not really poor taste, that whole thing had been blown so far out of proportion it was ridiculous, but a little cruel perhaps. "I think I like watching you hurt him."

"I actually think I like hurting him." Slade replied. He checked his back, twisted without pulling the stitches, and nodded approvingly. "Thanks."

"I could say the same to you."

"You never need to."

"I know."

Sabertooth stirred. His healing factor was starting to catch-up. Slade loomed above Sabertooth, grabbed a handful of his hair again, suddenly icily calm. Sabertooth did his best to take a swing, but he was so uncoordinated with agony and the effects of the beating all he managed was to flop his arm around a bit. "You going to kill me?" Sabertooth managed to say, one bloody eye looking out through his hair.

Slade paused thoughtfully, giving this the honest consideration he felt it deserved. "Are you going to apologise?" He said after a moment.

Sabertooth thought about testing Slade further, and decided against it. His neck still wasn't straight, there was a piece of metal running into his brain and out the other side, and he didn't even want to think about the state of his groin and his chances of fathering any new children. No need to let the day get any worse. "Sorry." He coughed.

Slade looked at Deadpool. "That good enough?"

"Well, I guess sincerity is in the eye of the beholder." Deadpool  replied, wondering if there was going to be any more macho posturing, then shook his head. "No."

Slade bent down, seizing Victor Creed suddenly and very powerfully by the foot and jerked it. There was a cracking sound, and suddenly it was facing the wrong way, and the jagged splinters of the bone were poking through his skin. Sabertooth screamed, howling with pain. He almost threw-up. "You heard the man." Slade said mercilessly. "Sincerity. Like you mean it."

"I'm sorry!" Sabertooth shouted, between the screams.

"Well, there's more feeling, I guess." Deadpool allowed. "Though I'm pretty sure all he's feeling is pain. This'd be easier if we could just talk this through like ordinary people."

"My way is faster." Slade said.

"Well that much is true." Deadpool conceded. "It does save time being evil as %$&#."

"So will that do?"

"Will what do?"

"So you're happy then? Got your dollar's worth of closure?" Slade asked, speaking very slowly and patiently.

"Wait, that's what I was giving you the money for?" Deadpool blinked. "I thought you needed the change to catch a bus or something."

"That wasn't clear?" Slade asked, getting to his feet. Sabertooth wasn't in a state to start fighting again. He started clawing at the handle of the knife, trying to loosen it enough to get it out. "How was that not clear?"

Deadpool sighed. "It's not that I don't like watching him suffer, because really, this was a picture-worthy moment if there ever was one - I half want to put pictures of it up on my instagram account. But Slade, a dollar's worth of closure isn't even sending him a stern note. This is something you should be taking to a therapist about. I'm serious, you need so many years of professional help."

"Who has the time to waste?" Slade replied rhetorically, then glanced down at Sabertooth. "Good enough. Now, are you working for Mr Sinister?"

"What?" Sabertooth was healing, but he wasn't even close to recovered.

"Think carefully about your answer, if I'm not convinced, there are all sorts of things I might do."

"No! No, I'm not working for anyone!" He sounded more horrified at the idea then he did Slade beating him further.

"No? How about Stryker? Or Shaw? Working for them?"

"No!"

"Vandal Savage?"

"What?"

"That didn't sound like yes or no."

"No! I'm not working for anyone, alright!"

"If you're lying, I will skin you, and make you into a rug." Slade said, sounding ernest enough that you could believe it. Though given that he was indulging in some light torture with every sign of enjoyment it was hardly out of character.

"Why the %$#& would I lie?"

"Fair enough." Slade said, letting go of him and stepping away.

"Right." Sabertooth said, finally pulling the knife out of his face, and starting the slow and uncomfortable process of getting up. He was unsteady, he had a lot of healing left to do, but everything was all more or less back, and in a semblance of working order. Or so he hoped, at least.

Slade stepped back, and didn't try to stop him.

Getting to his feet, the mutant started brushing himself off.

"Want a job?" Slade said after a moment.

Sabertooth paused, considering it. "Yeah, alright." Sabertooth replied.

And that was that.

"I'm heading to the abandoned base. Meet us there."

"What?"

"You know which one."

Sabertooth paused a moment, then nodded. "I do." He thought of pointing out that they were kicking him out of his room, but didn't see much point, and wandered out. The police had probably been called given the destruction their fight had caused, it might be better to find somewhere to lie low.

Deadpool folded his arms. "Sabertooth? Really?"

"Good to have a guy like that around." Slade said plainly. He noted a couple of corpses were occupying a corner of the room Sabertooth had been living in, and they'd been scalped - the mutant was up to his old tricks. He supposed that was the smell people were complaining about, and he shook his head with a kind of exasperation. Bizarre as it was, the two of them actually got on surprisingly well, when they were on the same side. "Besides, if we're going to keep on running into one another, we might as well be the ones calling the shots."

"Yeah, no."

"We could kill him if you prefer."

"One day I will." Deadpool replied. "One day I'll kill him, and he'll stay that way. But that days not today." He folded his arms. "Look, if you need muscle Sabertooth has you covered. But you can't trust him."

"I don't. You're the only one I trust, brother." said Slade, and meant it. "To be honest, I don't have a clue what is going on. We’ve found ourselves in a war of lies, disguise and dissembling. But I don't care enough to want to know anyway. We're better off not trusting anyone. And at least I know what Sabertooth's interests are."

Deadpool didn’t look convinced. 

"Come on,’ Slade rumbled. "That’s why the two of us have survived this long. We fight smart, we always have. Brains have got us out of more scrapes than balls."

"In your case, I’d hardly trust either."

Slade stared at him. Deadpool opened his mouth to elaborate, but Slade was already leaving. With a sigh, Deadpool fell into step behind him. Sometimes it was enough to make you wish there were easy answers.


	20. Chapter 20

They were back in the jeep, heading out into the great unknown. Slade had chosen a lesser-used, more round about route for this purpose, and it was blissfully quiet- neither of them much felt like beginning a conversation. Slade suspected something was the matter - normally, Deadpool's silence was something to be treasured and cherished, but his fidgeting and looks of guilt suggested he was wrestling with something - a moral quandary or something like it. But Slade, when given a gift horse, didn't pay attention to the mouth, just mounted on up and rode away, so was willing to enjoy the peace while it lasted.

The Alberta Wilderness was almost empty, they were the only people for miles as the jeep came to a stop far above Alkali Lake from the north, overlooking the glacier. Dominating the scene was the dam, a thousand feet high, three times that across, holding back a lake that stretched for miles. A huge generating station at its base told the reason for its existence, intended to provide an inexhaustible source of hydroelectric power. Of course, there were no towering pylons marching away downriver to carry all this energy to a hungry populace. What was generated here stayed here, to be used by the Alkali Lake Industrial Complex.

There was a fence blocking access to the crest of the dam, but it was no obstacle. The poles and links were so rusted and twisted by the fierce mountain weather that he simply stepped over. The two of them noticed an older sign than the first, barely held to the fence by a scrap of wire, informing intruders that this was a government installation, a military base, and top secret besides, and warning of the most dire consequences if anyone was of a mind to trespass.

Below the dam, the forest had been cleared for the better part of a mile to allow for the construction of the base. The layout of the complex was circular, like a defensive laager, and the scale was as impressive as the dam itself. This place had been built to last.

These faculties. How many times now had they been torn down? And how many times had they been built anew atop those ruins? Slade didn't know, nor did he much care to hazard a guess. It was many things, a prison, a laboratory. If h remembered correctly, it was officially listed as a document-processing center.

The whole base was covered with snow, drifts piled over doors and windows. What roads he saw were cracked and blistered, with weeds and flowers and the occasional small tree sprouting to reclaim the land that was rightfully theirs. Windows were mostly broken. No vehicles. No tracks in the snow.

Inside it was just as they both remembered. Long hallways and empty offices. They’d packed up the incidentals but left a fair amount of furniture, all of which had suffered from the assault of the elements, summer and winter. But the basic structure of the buildings—thick metal walls—was still sound. It was composed of a succession of strong points, compartments that could become individual fortresses all their own - the builders had known to be as worried about an assault from within as from without.

"I hate this #%&@ing place." It was the first thing Deadpool had said in hours.

Slade grunted affirmation, though his heart wasn't in it. Without this place, he didn't know who he'd be.

"Can't I just wait outside?"

"I suppose." Slade said with a shrug. "But if you do, you'll miss your surprise."

"You're trying to manipulate me. It won't work."

"No, actually." Slade replied with complete and transparent honesty. "I wanted to thank you for being a good sport about this, so I arranged you something nice. That way we'll both have something rewarding to do over the next few days."

"Our sorts of fun tend to be different."

"I'm aware of that."

"Well, fine. But this better be magnificent, that's all I say."

"Trust me."

"That doesn't sound like a good idea."

Slade chuckled. "Probably not."

"You've brought him back. As I knew you would." A figure in the dark whispered in a low, scratching voice.

"Who's this?" Deadpool asked, glancing around, looking for some sign of where the voice came from.

Slade shrugged, a muscle twitching under his missing eye. "Couldn't tell you."

"I am Romulus. And all that happens, happens to my designs." The figure that emerged from the shadows, one arm extended. He had shoulders seeming as wide as a barnbeam, his face was a square of granite with a few narrow lines carved into it at the eyes and the corners of his mouth, his tangled mane of hair was pulled back. Slade and Deadpool were both big men, but this made them look positively small in comparison.

"Give him to me." He stretched out his arm.

"Is this my surprise?" Deadpool said critically. "Because he's not doing a thing for me."

Slade closed his eye, and rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. He could feel a mounting headache coming on. "I don't need this crap." He said softly, then lowered his arms. "This is petty, even for Shaw. I'm going to go outside for a cigarette. Could you deal with this?"

Romulus blinked. "Are you talking to me?" He'd expected a little more attention.

Slade tilted his head a fraction. "Well obviously I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my brother here." He growled. "When I'm talking to him, I'm talking to him. When I say 'shut the hell up', I'm talking to you."

"I thought you quit." Deadpool added helpfully.

"I'm not ready to give up on you yet." Slade replied.

"Cigarettes, I mean. I thought you quit smoking, because the writers don't want to give impressional readers the association of a strong, capable, physically attractive male smoking. Solving their problems with violence as the first and sole resort, that's okay, but smoking?" He folded his arms. "I don't know why they're so bothered. I mean, cancer's not that bad when you get to know it. Me and cancer, we've got an understanding. We're practically symbioses. But I'm the exception, not the rule."

"Well I guess it's time for a relapse then." Slade grumbled back, not sure what Deadpool was talking about, or what it had to do with his ex-wife's ultimatum after 'Nam. He'd just realised he didn't actually have any, having quit a long time ago. He doubted Wade had any either. That meant a drive back to civilisation. Well, so be it. "Because suddenly I don't think I can do without one. Be back in a minute. Handle this guy, will you." Without another word, Slade turned and walked away.

Deadpool sighed. That was harsh. Romulus opened his mouth to protest, either being dismissed, or the fact that Slade was taking the thing he wanted with him. "Don't take it personally, but he doesn't kill people without being paid, and he doesn't think you're worth his time." Deadpool told him, sounding positively friendly. "Or maybe he likes you. Kinda hard to tell with my brother, him not killing you can mean a lot of things." Deadpool paused. "Hell, him killing you can mean everything from nothing personal, to either he hates you or he secretly envies and respects you."

Romulus growled a little under his breath. This was not going how he had intended. "What your brother intends means less to me then the tears of widows." He snapped, walking closer with all the unconscious grace of a panther wading into a pool. He was huge, thin, and Deadpool found it a little disconcerting when he turned his empty, haunted gaze on him, and felt maybe he'd judged the man wrong. He'd come off as a bit of a loser, given his stupid outfit, but was starting to look like a very dangerous man to start any kind of $&!# with at all. "It is not him I require, he is like you, nothing but a genetic dead end, an abandoned alley on the long road to unlimited power."

"HEY! There's no call for that." He sniffed. "Words hurt, you know."

Romulus went on, as though he hadn't been interrupted." I want Wolverine. I need him for my designs. And if you do not get out of my way, I'll take him from you."

Deadpool sighed. "Look, I'm not your lawyer, and you're not my responsibility, but I'd advise against it. I really don't think that's in your best interest. I mean, well if it was up to me, sure, Wolverine's not worth the trouble, but Slade is taking this real personally because of the issues he won't admit he has. Obviously they're stretching that mystery out, to try to keep you reading, but you seem like an honest sort of guy, so I'll confide in you; I think he's afraid he's growing old, but he doesn't want to talk about it. With all the fantastic musicians passing away recently, it's all really made him think about his own mortality - since then he's been waiting for a chance like this. This is just an educated guess, he won't admit this to me either. We used to be so close, but that sort of thing happens, and he's never been the sort to talk about his feelings. Anyway, if I gave him to you, Slade'd hunt you down and do terrible things to you instead of to Wolverine."

Romulus' soft blue eyes fell on Deadpool. It gave the mercenary chills. "He could try."

Deadpool nodded vigourously. "Exactly. Trust me, you don't want to see Slade try and hurt you. Most people he doesn't bother with much effort, he just kills them. When he goes out of his way -" He said, entirely missing the point. Then he paused. There seemed to be a missing logical step here, somewhere. "Why do you want him, anyway?"

"You have no idea? No idea what it is you have?" He laughed. "Wolverine is the latest in a long line. A process as long as human civilisation. My eugenics campaign to create the ultimate warrior."

Deadpool actually laughed at that, rather hard. He laughed and laughed until he was afraid he was going to do himself damage. Then he laughed some more. He was laughing so hard he was a bit afraid he might lose control of his bodily functions. Part of him was worried that this was some kind of crazy strategy, to make him unable to fight. If that was the case, it was working. When he finally stopped, he took a deep breath, then collapsed laughing again, tears in his eyes. Finally, he got to his feet, and attempted to continue the conversation as though he hadn't interrupted it. "Then no offence, but you are a really poor excuse for an arms-dealer. Random genetic combinations have reliably and frequently created things significantly worse than he could ever be." Deadpool shook his head. "I don't know if you missed it, but my brother kicked his ass with some special forces training and a few out-dated enhancements- and he didn't need the enhancements. Hell, maybe you haven't seen Steve Rogers do his thing, but as it turns out, he's a prototype. And last time I checked, sharks haven't evolved for millions of years, because they're already perfect." He paused. "Or is that crocodiles? Maybe hippos?"

Romulus frowned. "I don't need to explain myself to you." He sounded petulant. Deadpool wasn't surprised. “This is my triumph. You are irrelevant.”

“Dude, six thousand people died here.” Deadpool pointed out. “Died slowly, and in terrible agony. So how about you show some respect.”

Romulus shrugged. "That seems besides the point."

"And furthermore, I'd like to get some %&#$ing sensitivity here as well. I'm mentally unwell, not a endless repository of stupid dadaist behavior and shallow references to cultural flotsam." He paused. "So wait, were me and Slade involved in this stupid plan of yours?"

"You were incidentals. Scraps I tossed the supervisors who funded my work. They thought me tamed, an instrument of their will, little guessing that it was I who directed all things."

"Yeah, well… your face is… smell funny." Was Deadpool's scathing repartee. Deciding to give the man a chance to recover from that verbal equivalent of a slam-dunk, he resumed his questioning. "So Dr. Killebrew, Dr. Cornelius, Ajax (that's probably been worked into canon by now), those guys all worked for you? How about all those other guys tangentially related? Nuke, Maverick, Kestrel, those dudes too?"

"There were a lot of failures."

"You don't say. So, Butler worked for you?”

“Are you trying to trip me up?”

“Oh, it’s obvious? Here, let me try again. How come nobody ever mentions you?"

"My place is in the shadows."

"Then you have an unfortunate taste in tailors. Drop the act. Why don't you tell me who you are really?"

"I am Romulus. Lord of the…"

"Not that crap, I mean who are you really. Seriously like anyone believes that. That's a backstory for a LARP character written by a fifteen year old boy who thinks it's going to impress the hottest girl in school because he saw her reading Lord of the Rings once, not a credible history for a real person." Deadpool replied, rolling his eyes. "There's no shame in being a big guy who hits people. Claiming you're a has-been who used to be really important is kinda sad. 'I couda been a contender - 'twas the summer of '69', all downhill from here', is that really how you want people to think about you? A guy who claims to have gone from founding one of the biggest and most powerful civilizations ever, arguably setting the course of western history - to chasing around after a mutant with claws and a good medical plan? Seriously, if you have to go on about your backstory to hide the fact you're living off the glory days, fine, but at least pick a more impressive goal. That's what most people do, and it works great for them. Some of them even get taken seriously."

"Believe what you will."

"Oh, I intend to. And I believe that you are trying to sell more crap then a dozen fertilizer salesmen." Deadpool responded brightly.

Romulus stepped forward, and flexed his fingers.

"Wait, wait. There's only so much space in the issue - why not use some of it to explain what you're actually doing!"

"Is it not obvious? There have always been mutants. While their population exploded after the detonation of the Atom Bomb, they have always existed as long as there have been people. The Meddling of the Celestial Host saw to that. But…"

"When people ask 'where did you come from', they usually don't want you to start with a variation of 'some say that the Creator spoke four words, and from that instant birthed the Nine Realms, others say that's revisionist history and the universe started long ago, brought about by the friendship of Stan 'The Man' Lee and Jack Kirby, who everyone else is imitating, but the concepts they borrowed from are still present.' It's overkill." Deadpool replied, rolling his eyes. "Get to the point - what are you doing here and now?"

Romulus didn't even try to follow that. "But in Wolverine, and his extended family, it has begun to stabilize. Not an X-factor precipitating a fresh roll of the genetic dice with every new birth, but genetic stability - a viable subspecies. Akin to the theories of Lamark."

"The French's off-model Darwin? Why does he keep coming up in conversation?"

"Maybe he was right afterall. Mutants are the future - but not all of them. Just the ones who develop in the right way. A healing factor, retardation of aging, heightened senses and physical fitness - all with no drawbacks…"

Deadpool could not believe how boring this explanation was. He almost wanted to shoot himself, just to make it stop. "Maybe, maybe not. All a bit out of my pay-grade. So, since he's been on a long leash as long as I've known him, I have to ask, what is your plan anyway? With Wolverine, I mean. Not generally, you've said enough now to give me a good idea that that's about as well thought out as your backstory."

"I need his progeny. I'll let him think he's escaped, find the perfect female carrier - my twin sister - and have her seduce him while I watch, and then - "

"Wait, why do you need to watch? Can't you just torrent Game of Thrones like everyone else?"

Romulus looked nonplussed. "I don't understand."

"Cultural references lost on you? What a surprise. What I am asking you is this - why do you need to watch Wolverine and your twin sister go at it?"

"Oh, I never said I had to."

Deadpool went very quiet and still for a moment. Then he sighed. "I guess that's my own fault. I knew asking couldn't go anywhere good, and yet I asked anyway. Alright, that's enough. I might not have any idea about your endgame, but I don't need to. Your plan stinks, and really so do you." Deadpool said, holding up a hand. "Forget it." Romulus had gotten lost in the blather, but was pretty sure he was being insulted. "What?"

"You're just so, painfully boring. I mean, I know you can't help that, but I feel boring, just from associating with you." He shook his head. Any alarm the figure may have caused was a distant memory. "I mean, here you are, with an absurd plan, hoping that a bit of shock value will hide the fact that you don't have any identity, that you're just throwing a tantrum to try to get Wolverine to notice you as though he's you're alcoholic father - another thing I had, and take it from me, you're better off cutting that tie first opportunity. But not you, because it's the only thing you have. You know, you being here is clearly the editors way of telling me something. I should listen to my brother sometimes. I'm standing here talking, when clearly I should be fighting."

The moment he finished talking, he came in low, but Romulus was ready for him, and this fight was not going the way either of them expected.

Deadpool had his swords out in a split second, but Romulus repelled Deadpool's twin strikes without apparent effort, his barbed hands moving with such speed that it was surely impossible. Romulus fought with precise grace, his every blow weighted and measured, his movements anticipating Deadpools on every level. Far too fast for the man to follow, Deadpool dropped his swords, useless in a grapple, and drew his gun, firing from the hip, but the brutish figure swayed aside as the shot was fired, swept his arm with an almost negligent movement and hacked the barrel in two before reversing the blow and hammering his elbow into Deadpool’s stomach. The heavy impact staggered the 'Merc with the Mouth', but Deadpool was used to pain, and took the opportunity to slash with a long bowie knife he was fortunate enough to be carrying. The blow cut the shoulder and the cheek, nearly reaching the eye. Romulus didn't so much as flinch, he slammed the same elbow into Deadpool's face and while he was reeling at the power behind the strike, took a step back to reorient himself. Romulus followed him, raising a single finger tipped with a claw that came to a single needle point, placed it almost gently against Deadpool's Adams apple, and punched the needle sharp point through his throat with all the effort of a shoemaker punching a hole in leather. The Merc with a Mouth crumpled, his eyes rolling up.

Deadpool figured that maybe his first impression had the right of it afterall, as his heeling factor made the blood clot and his flesh stitch itself back together. The man, really stupid plan, backstory, costume, and pretty much everything else notwithstanding, was a bad Mother-#%&@er.

As he got to his feet, the man raised a hand, but Deadpool held up his hands. "Wait. Wait just a second. Time out."

Unfortunately, the ancient laws of combat were not respected here. Romulus hit him while he was down, aiming a thunderous kick at Deadpool's unprotected ribs. They weren't up to this sort of treatment, and crumpled under the impact, and drove Deadpool right back to the ground. Groping around, Deadpool found the sword he'd dropped, caught it and thrust with his blade, but Romulus leaned away from the blow, the tip of the blade scraping a furrow in his chest, more of a scrape then a real cut.

It closed a moment later.

"Look, this is really an exercise in futility. We both heal."

"I made you. I can take you apart." Romulus replied mildly, with enough raw confidence that you could believe him.

If you were stupid.

"Yeah, so you say. I don't buy it anymore then anyone else. Even if you were somehow involved, though from the look of you I'd imagine any qualifications or diplomas you might have would be scrawled on a sheepskin…" Romulus managed to sink his claws into Deadpool's cheek and rip it clean off, sending Deadpool scrambling back.

It was a moment before Deadpool was fit to talk again - a moment that was amongst the worst in Deadpool's life, and hoped he'd never have to repeat. "… but the actual event has remained open-ended for a long time so as not to confuse my continuity too much - look at the unrelated characters my movie claimed were responsible! You coming in and taking credit for stuff that's just lying around isn't as thrilling as you seem to think." Deadpool sneered. "And anyway, I was made in the sixties. Well, chronologically, at least. Seriously, you know the first thing they probably tried to make ordinary humans develop superpowers? Make us take a literal gallon of LSD, and hope that somehow gave us the ability to cut guns in half with our minds." Deadpool scissored his legs and then flipped to his feet, shifting his grip on the sword minutely as he did. "Maybe it would have worked, I don't know, but what I want to say is that I've come a long way since then." He lunged. Romulus was ready for him.

The two of them moved in a graceful ballet of thrust, dodge, counterattack and parry. Romulus fought like Sabertooth and Wolverine, only more so: with a fury and unrelenting pressure, hardened by an eternity of experience, but this could be used against him to. Guys like that get set in his ways, slow to adapt to changing circumstances, easy to put one over. He was the perfect foil for Deadpool's careful skill and natural ability to improvise.

Deadpool got his swords back, rolled under a sweeping lunge more because it looked awesome then it was a sensible move, managed to cut into Romulus' torso, and only got a few bits of himself carved off in response. Getting his feet under himself, he jumbed, twisted and thrust down with his sword, directly into Romulus' collarbone.

"Ha! Did you see that? That was my impression of Achilies from Troy. Hugely under-rated movie."

"Is this all just a game to you?"

"A game? I know you take yourself way to seriously, I mean even my brother's got that kind of acerbic wit thing going for him, but you obviously have no idea what that word means. If this was a game, I would be having fun." Deadpool snarled. It wasn't enough to beat the guy. Now he was going to entirely humiliate him as well. "This is just tedious, like wiping my arse for hours after hours."

"What a charming mental image."

"Fine. It's come to this. First up, I want to apologise. Judging you by your appearance? Not cool." He stuck out his fist. "We cool?"

Instead of bumping it, Romulus paced toward him in a definitively predatory way, his fingers twitching as he did.

"I want to make it up to you. Maybe I can fix your image problems - the problems actually quite simple." Deadpool pulled out a pistol, and was privately grateful he'd taken the time to bring all his weapons. "You don't have the right kneecaps to be popular. Fortunately, you're about to get the chance to get some new ones." He shot Romulus in the leg. Romulus barely flinched the first time. Or the second. By the third he was limping. By the seventh he fell flat on his face. "Unfortunately, you can't buy new kneecaps. You have to order them. You can't just go around buying kneecaps." His non sequitur said, he drew his swords with a little flourish, then ran at Romulus as he pulled himself up. Romulus swung, but Deadpool flipped seven feet in the air, did a triple summersault, and as he sailed over Romulus's head struck with both his swords, catching him in the face and the shoulder. Most of Romulus got to his feet.

With a tumble that any gymnast in any olympic team would insist was impossible, Deadpool rolled beneath Romulus' outstretched claw, cutting him along the arm and thigh as he did, bounced of a wall to reverse his momentum and did it again, cutting his other leg. A moment later he was on his feet, attacking from every angle at once with both his swords.

Romulus fended him off at first, but was off-balance and staying that way, and Deadpool didn't give him a chance to straighten himself out, finally getting though his guard. Horribly, but expectedly, Romulus didn't die. He stood where he was, backed up against the laboratory wall, and blood ran down his chest in a steady stream. The sword had started in his shoulder, and ended up in his kidney, nearly bisecting him. Blood flew on the air, but still he didn't die. There was a series of faint popping sounds as the broken bones reknit themselves, and the wounds started to close, but Deadpool didn't wait around. He just started cutting as hard and fast as he could, lashing away like a carpet beater gone berserk. This continued at last until, panting asthmatically and trying to stand up straight, Deadpool backed off and looked for something to lean on. Romulus' twisted carcass, only held up by the constant impacts of the swords, hit the ground and lay still.

"I feel like I should say something smart." Deadpool admitted, when he got his breath back. "I mean, your the next best thing to dead - so my rapier wit would be wasted upon you, and to be honest this whole thing is just best forgotten." Deadpool said. "But I feel like if I say something slightly sociopathic, a quip to show how desensitised I am to bloody murder, then you're more likely to stay dead, and that's what's best for everyone." He paused again. "But you're so boring, I can't think of anything."

"You still going at it?" Slade asked, stepping in. He'd removed his mask and had a cigarette between his lips, but hadn't lit it yet. There was a petrol station a couple of miles back that was owned by a creepy old guy who issued vague warnings about keeping away from the 'old Buckner place', an isolated cabin in the woods, that was apparently site of some kind of 'gruesome massacre' twenty years ago or something - Slade wasn't really paying all that much attention. Slade, not having any particular desire to go in that direction, had agreed without argument, which had obviously perturbed the man significantly, who'd filled his jeep with enough gas to 'get where you're going, but getting back, that's your problem'. Slade had thanked him politely, which had made the man all the more disturbed, and he'd gone up to his room to dry-heave into the toilet bowl.

Deadpool rounded on him. "What the hell was that about?"

"I got a craving." Slade replied, indicating the packet to demonstrate. "Here, have a smoke."

"Are you kidding? Those things will kill you." Deadpool replied holding up his hands to ward his brother off. "You know what they got in them? All sorts of bad stuff." He finished lamely when Slade raised an eyebrow.

"Kill you? Really?" Slade replied, looking at him steadily.

"Fair enough. Fat chance of that. I'll have one or two." He stretched out his arm. "Don't think this makes up for you abandoning me."

Slade rolled his eye. "Please. You could have punched that losers clock in your sleep. You just needed a bit of space to work, and no way to make somebody elese do it for you."

"What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything. Of course I could have killed him. Anybody could have killed that guy, I mean look at him." Slade shook his head in disgust. "Our half-brother could have killed him. I left you to do it because I'm sick and tired of your constant whining and griping, and hanging on the sidelines acting like you're better then this."

"I told you I didn't want this job!"

"When do you ever?" Slade retorted. "Now if you're done with all your complaining, could you maybe ask your head voices if they've seen my brother, and if they have, if he's ready to stop acting like a little brat, and kick some arse?"

Deadpool sighed, but straightened his shoulders. "You can be kind of a bastard, you know that?"

"It's called tough love. And if you want to get technical, we're both bastards." Slade replied.

"You know, it's not easy being your brother sometimes." Deadpool grumbled, following Slade into the compound. "So what are we looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it."

Slade paused, then removed a canister filled with White Phosphorous from his harness, and placed it next to Romulus' corpse as he stepped past him. He really didn't want to see that guy again anymore then Deadpool did.

"No wait, I got one!" Deadpool suddenly shouted as he shot the canister, figuring that was safer then touching it. "Got a light?"

It took Slade a moment to figure out what he meant, and shook his head. "That's what you went with? Weak."

"Hey, my sociopathic tendencies are sort of in remission." He paused. "What would you have said?"

"Something like 'I'm leaving, this place is dead anyway'."

"Wow. That's really good." Deadpool gave him a thumbs up. "I'm passing that off as my own material next time I have the opportunity."

"Be my guest."

"So what's my surprise?"

Slade sighed. "You're acting like a child."

"Come on. Tell me."

"She's waiting in the next room. See for yourself."

"…No."

Slade patted him on the back. "Go get something clean on. I'll get started on Wolverine."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody has any respect for Romulus. I actually had to restrain myself a bit, insulting him.


	21. Chapter 21

Wolverine awoke in pain. Searing pain, tearing pain. The kind of pain he'd suppressed when they'd bonded the metal to his skeleton, peeling back the flesh piece by piece to expose each bone. He felt like he had been torn apart, piece by piece, all over again. Which was essentially what had happened.

Slade loomed over him, his back against the light. He was wearing a heavy rubberised apron smeared with fresh blood over his costume, and holding a bowie knife and a claw hammer. He looked like a last minute addition to get the coveted 'R' rating.

Kicking open the door, Deadpool strolled in wearing a coat and fedora over his costume. "Lucy, I'm home!" he called, taking his coat off and tossing it over a chair, the hat following suit. He looked around. "You've been holding out on me, brother mine! This is some prime real-estate here! Nice place, very roomy… wouldn't have gone with this colour scheme myself, but you can just smell the development potential! Say, what do you think about condos?"

"Wade!" Shikilah called out, waving excitedly as though he could somehow miss her - a colorful explosion of feminine sexuality, her every movement a physical expression of deep, penetrating eroticism. She had quite the voice as well. Husky. No, silky, like honey. Deadpool didn't have a type, exactly - he'd give anything a try a few times - just in case he wasn't as receptive as he should be the first time. But he set a great store by voices.

Without wasting another word, he swept over to her, dipped he as though the two of them were dancing, pulled up his mask and planted one hell of a kiss on her: lips, tongue, the entire osculant assemblage, and she thought _ooh la la_. She was probably the only one who would, given what he looked like without the mask, but demons had very different standards of beauty then humans were familiar with. Societal mores and definitions were full of crap anyway. While she was quivering, he assisted her back up, not that he was in much better shape. He could smell her perfume; and it filled his head with a musky purple mist.

She was, in the suitable parlance, one hell of a woman; a startlingly appealing woman; more woman then most people could handle - tall and slim in the right places and curvy in the others. Her lips were full, her long, straight, dark hair centre-parted, her eyes heavily lashed and exotically grey and suitable to attach a lot of adjectives. A master sculptor could not have improved upon her cheek bones. She didn't look a day over twenty-eight, which was flattering, since she was so old that Deadpool felt young beside her.

They'd been married a little over a year. The sex had been exceptional. The emotional intimacy had almost reduced him to tears.

It was a good thing she was doing so much to fill the room. Wolverine just lay there, on their improvised autopsy table, looking for all the world like a badly butchered slab of meat. In actuality, most of the incisions had been surgeon-like in their precision, but with his healing factor that was not readily apparent.

"You realise that's not doing any good, right?"

"Gotta start somewhere." Slade said, gritting his teeth.

"Straight down to business. I love this guy. So how do we keep him dead? Since it doesn't seem to matter how much of him we cut off or how much blood he loses, even if he can't heal?" Deadpool asked from somewhere to his left, like he was contributing - though since he'd asked him to be here, Slade wasn't in a position to complain. Slade was half-listening, figuring if anybody had some insight into this, it would be his brother. "I mean, look at him. We've really worked him over, both lungs punctured, heart stabbed out, every artery he has opened, ten of those special bullets in his chest, and he still has vitals signs. I know I die if my head gets cut off - not for long thanks to that arsehat Thanos, but all this should work on him."

He was in a dark place, that felt underground. His senses were too overwhelmed by pain to be much more useful then that.

"Suppose we'll just have to destroy all his soft-tissues." Deathstroke replied, sounding almost bored. It was the hunt that he lived for. Not this… miserable necessity.

"What, like lower him into a pool full of acid and let him dissolve? Or a pool full of sharks with freaking lazer beams attached to their heads? Or maybe a pool of acid, with a shark that breathes acid in it…" He paused. "Maybe with spikes at the bottom or something just in case, I don't know. I don't think you have one of those, more's the pity. And pet shops refuse to sell sharks wholesale. Looks like we'll have to just let him go… Release him back into the wild, and help he can reacclimatise to his new environment." He paused. "Though there is… this." He paused dramatically, drinking it for all it was worth, then removed something from one of the many pouches he always wore. "I hoped it would never come to this. May God understand my actions, and not judge me too harshly for them. But we have no choice. How can I? How can I let it come to this, cross this line? And yet, I must."

Slade raised an eyebrow. "What are you babbling about?"

"I picked this up in Haiti, from a sinister man all in white, with no shirt and awesome tophat, and his skin all painted to look like a skeleton." Deadpool lied glibly. "He thought it was just some bizarre piece of edgy merchandising, but I could tell what it was straight away, and knew I couldn't let it fall into the wrong hands." Slade was suddenly grateful that the mask made his facial expression impossible to read.

Deadpool had reached into one of his belt pouches, and removed a highly disturbing - disturbingly adorable - cutesy stuffed doll dressed up in a surprisingly accurate Wolverine costume. It had no hands or feet, only rounded, fluffy stumps. "How could it come to this?" He asked himself rhetorically, milking the moment for everything it had. "A part of me wishes I'd never even come across it."

"Then how come you keep it in our bed and hug it sometimes when you feel lonely?" Shiklah asked, sounding curious.

"That's a pretty specific thing to have in your pouches. Do you always carry that around?" Slade asked.

Deadpool waved away their questions with an air of importance, removing a switchblade and flicking it open. "Don't worry, I've seen Doctor Strange do this hundreds of times. Well, once." He lied some more, working on the principle that as long as he was lying about where the doll came from he should make the same effort for his qualifications.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he said a few of the words that Harry Potter, protagonist of some rather excellent young-adult novels, always used in what he hoped was an appropriately mystical tone of voice, then stabbed the doll as hard as he could, directly into the torso. Some white fluff came out. That was all. It certainly didn't have any effect Wolverine.

"Huh. Could’ve sworn. Well, maybe I needed to sacrifice a chicken or something." Deadpool said. "The pieces are all here. I just need to figure out how to put them together."

Slade made a sucking sound and bit his lip, forcibly repressing laughter. If he so much as cracked a smile, he'd never hear the end of it ever. "Or we could strap him to the business end of a cyclotron." he said when he was sure he'd gotten his sense of humour under control.

"Where the hell are we supposed to get one of them?" Deadpool asked, tossing the doll away. "You might as well suggest we…"

Slade shrugged. "The internet?"

Deadpool conceded that with a nod. "Alright then. Long as I can keep it for my headquarters." He been planning on reforming his own group of costumed adventurers called 'The Deadpool Corps', and a cyclotron was just the thing for their ever-so-secret hide-out (soon as he found one). Maybe a Phantom Zone projector, and a portal to the Negative Zone. The basic mainstays.

"We could put it in the TV room!" Shiklah suggested, not really following the suggestions (where she came from, manner of death tended to be highly traditional - which wasn't to say lacking in brutality) but feeling one could never have too much clutter. That room was her favourite part of Deadpool's apartment. Over the course of their relationship, she'd become addicted to watching soaps, and frequently shirked her royal responsibilities passing judgement in the Underworld to sneak into his apartment and watch reruns of 'Passions', so that Deadpool waking up to find her adorably curled up on his couch, fast asleep with the television still on and her little dragon thing 'Bug' curled up for warmth was becoming a semi-regular occurrence.

"And if that doesn't work?"

"Toss him into space. He'll drift around for a while, and eventually become the Skrulls problem or something."

"Well, genius, you got it all figured out nice and laterally. Only one problem. What's your plan for getting him into space? Give NASA some funding? I hear for a billion dollars they can delay a project until they get more funding."

Slade paused. "…Zetta Beams?" He hazarded with a shrug.

Deadpool sighed. No matter how crazy he might be, what bizarre tangents of imagination he might take, how his crazed mind chose to observe the world, he could never quite be as bizarre as real life managed to be with distressing regularity. That thought very nearly depressed him.

"Look I think space is bigger then that." He said when he could trust himself to speak.

"So what if it is?" He shrugged. "Then the Kree? Or Colu - wherever it is that Braniac comes from, or whatever. Like I care where he is frozen." Quite frankly, there was no number that existed which was small enough to indicate the number of %$#@'s he gave about outer space. Which Deadpool rather thought was a shame.

"Look, you don't actually freeze in space. Space isn't cold." Deadpool said, shaking his head.

Slade blinked. He was pretty sure that contradicted his own experiences to the subject. "It's not?"

"No."

"You're sure? How come when people get pulled out, they're all frozen then?"

Deadpool wasn't even going to try and answer that. "Just… just trust me, it's not. There is no temperature at all in a vacuum."

Slade was almost certain he'd had direct experience to the contrary. "Oh. So what happens?"

"You explode." Deadpool wasn't sure if this was true, or a if it was another very well circulated rumour like the cold thing, but it seemed good enough to him.

Slade smiled slowly. "And with his healing factor…"

Deadpool cringed a little (he had an excellent imagination), and changed the subject. "It seems a waste. If we want to put him in an environment so hostile to human life he can't survive, why not just drive to Basin City?" Deadpool added.

"Can I go with him? I've heard about it, it sounds like home!" Shiklah adding.

"…Uhhhh," Wolverine forced out.

"Trust me, you don't want to go there. Once you get past all the danger, the poverty and grime and ugliness, the institutional callousness and retro feel like it's out of sync with the rest of the world, it's just generally tacky." Deadpool replied to his wife, then glanced down at the victim, and made a sympathetic noise. "There's our little trooper. How's he doing? Wow. You're a mess. You want a band-aid or something?"

"The trick is not to mind that it hurts." Slade added helpfully. Deadpool nudged him, to remind him he was overplaying the 'hardcore mercenary badass' thing he had going for him, but Slade didn't notice. He was too busy overplaying it.

Wolverine made another noise.

"The pit of despair. Don't even think of trying to escape, nobody ever has. And don't hold out for a rescue either, trust me, not even Kurt Russel himself could break you out of here." Deadpool replied.

"Oh, he knows where we are. Don't you, Jimmy?" Slade said, stepping back with the flourish of a circus ringman introducing his show. "Even with his generally unreliable memory, I doubt he could entirely forget this place. Could you, Jimmy?"

Wolverine tried to speak again, but couldn't find the strength. Deadpool withdrew, and Slade stepped close, taking a comically over-sized syringe usually used for basing roasts, loaded it up with enough oxycontin and phencyclidine to sedate a herd of elephants. "But enough of memory-lane. Go back to sleep. And don't wake again, or I'll shoot you some more." He said, and as if perfectly timed to ruin the atmosphere, Slade's phone rang.

Slade growled, low in his throat, and for a long moment very nearly ignored it. At last, his professionalism won him over. Only his current employer had that number. So he could hardly ignore it, much as he'd like to.

"You seem singularly blessed with poor timing." Slade growled into the telephone.

"Yes. We've begun, but to little effect. I was about to try something a bit more drastic."

"No, he's been no trouble at all. We've kept him well restrained, and…"

"We had a deal." He spoke very quietly, and very sharply.

"If you think your reasons matter to me, you clearly don't have a grasp on the situation at hand. We have an agreement. I don't see any reason to go altering it."

"Spare me. What do you have to hang over me, really? Why do you think I deferred payment? You don't have a thing…"

"…You son of a bitch." Slade hung up, dropped the phone onto the ground, then crushed it under the heel of his boot. He took a deep breath, then snapped out of his little tantrum, and got himself back under control. Or seemed to, because the next thing he did was glower down at Wolverine with a very homicidal gleam in his eye. "I suppose you think that was pretty &*%^ing funny." Slade said, eye narrowing. Apparently, his efforts hadn't worked.

"I suppose so, yeah." Wolverine forced out. He even forced himself to smile, or at least, flash his teeth. It wasn't easy. His facial muscles didn't all seem to be there.

"Well laugh while you can. Oh sure, you're getting a fresh lease. But Vandal Savage is a bigger bastard then me. I doubt you'll like whatever he has in store with you. And if you somehow do get free, remember this." Slade leaned close. "I beat you. I beat you easily. It wasn't a trick. It wasn't a fluke. It wasn't an imaginary story. I am better then you, Jimmy. And I can do it again." He leaned closer still, until his lips were just inches away from Wolverine's ear. "I can do it as many times as I want, whenever I want. I can find you. Bring friends next time. Maybe we can have a party. Maybe I can hurt them too. Just remember, you and me ever meet again, and you'll be back here. Except I won't aestheticize you first." He leaned closer still.

"See you real soon."

He jabbed the syringe into Wolverine's carteroid artery, and the world went dark.

Deadpool was sure now. Slade was happy.


	22. Chapter 22

Deadpool had, despite the isolation and the bad memories this place conjured - of being locked in a box, feverish and hallucinating, as his body died over and over again, his heart stopping and not starting again, huge sections of his brain going dark - an awful time, really, nonetheless managed to have a pretty fantastic day.

He and Shiklah had gone for a drive through the wilderness. They'd had a picnic, caught snowflakes on their tongues, seen the impossibly beautiful snapshot of a doe and a few infant deers drinking out of a pool, then better yet they’d managed to find, in defiance of all the laws of supply and demand, a small roadside place that did have some mexican food on the menu as well as plenty of fruity drinks with alcohol in them that men (at least Deadpool) secretly loved but can't drink normally because they'd be judged, met some obnoxious hawaiian shirted tourists for Shiklah to eat - Deadpool was pretty sure they wouldn't be missed, and to top it all off, the two of them had lain down together in the fresh, powdery snow, rolled ontop of each other and made love right there, like a pair of…

…Whatever it was that did that sort of thing. That bit was so good they'd done it a couple more times, healing factors worked on refractory periods as well, and as a succubus Shiklah took it as a point of pride that she was absolutely insatiable. Then they'd dozed off whispering sweet nothings to one another, woken up frozen stiff, and had another go at it to warm up, which had left Deadpool physically unable to stop smiling.

The sun was setting when he was ready to leave, but the facility seemed to be deserted once again. He eventually found his brother, sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the dam, a six-pack by his side. A song was playing softly on a portable radio - ‘Here’s to you’, by Ennio Morricone and Joan Baez. It was a great song, mournful and sweet.

"Come. Sit with me, drink with me." Slade said without turning around.

He took him up on the offer. ”What are you thinking about?"

"My little girl."

Part of Deadpool wanted to make a pedophile crack, but that was out of line and lacking in good taste, particularly when Slade was maudlin about his family, and besides, it would get him thrown off the edge. He'd survive, but it would hurt. So he settled on an 'out of wedlock' joke.

"Sure she's yours?"

"The hair is a bit of a giveaway." Slade replied. Deadpool conceded that. He wondered where it had come from, actually - he didn't have it, and neither did either of their parents.

"So, he screwed you over. What now?"

"I think I'll do the job anyway." Slade said after a moment. "I'll head back to Jump City, round myself up a team of people I can trust, and see how it turns out." He finished his beer. "You coming?"

Deadpool was conflicted. He almost said no. And he didn't know if it was loyalty to Cable or Slade that made him nod. "You need somebody to watch your back. " He said at last.

"Thanks."

"So who do you have in mind?"

"Some guys I've worked with before. Not all that bad, by our standards at least, good at what they do." He paused. "With a few exceptions. I should mention, fair warning. Brother Blood is old-school."

"Does he have a top hat, a hooked nose and impressive handlebar moustache that he twirls?"

Slade paused. "Not quite that old school, but he does look a lot like Peter Cushing."

Deadpool nodded. "Fair enough." You couldn't get much more old-school then that. "What does he do?"

"Same thing as Charles Xavier. He runs part of HIVE."

Deadpool shook his head. "HIVE are a bad joke of an acronym. At least 'The men from N.O.W.H.E.R.E' sounds intimidating." He paused. "Whatever it might stand for. Or whatever it is they do - far as I can tell it's a franchise. Sort of like a less evil corporation."

"Always wondered that myself." Slade said, cracking open his second beer. “I could tell you stories about HIVE, however. Blood runs his branch as sort of a school. He acts the part - somewhere between a school principal, a re-education facility and a cult leader."

“Like you said. Sort of like Charles Xavier.”

"Sort of like Charles Manson." He finished his beer. "So, you still think I owe you an explanation?"

"About N.O.W.H.E.R.E?"

"About all of this." Slade replied, with a gesture. "This job, why it matters so much."

"You have one?"

"I suppose, if you want it."

Deadpool paused. "Oh, why not."

"Not that complicated, really. You see, I take a certain pride in what I do. I like it. It's the sweetest thing there is, better than sex, better than love or being a father, better than money or drugs, all that crap. But to be the best, you have to go further than anyone else. You have to be willing to do whatever it takes, outfight machines, outthink ruthless bastards, outplan computer software, and outvicious people mad enough to shoot out their own throats if that's what they need to do. That's me. That's who I am. And that’s why I took the job, no other reason. To be honest, I don't care about Vandal Savage, or any sort of politics. Hell, he'll probably try to kill us after this job is done, let him. We'll survive, we always do. And I don't care whether humans are extinct in a couple of generations due to being out-evolved, or whether Mutants are a sin or whatever. That's all somebody elses problem. It's all crap, anyway. If there is going to be a war, I know what my strategy is; Get rich and get out. That said, set me a challenge, a chance to do something nobody else could do, and I just can't resist."

"Is that what this is? Some kind of mid-life crisis?" Deadpool had been wondering that for a while, now.

Slade shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe that's what you do, when you start to get old and slow. Try and see if you're still worthy of the name. Pick fights, push yourself harder then you should, and in the end you're either still in the game, or it's settled. It's not a choice, not for me, it's the only thing. It’s just… who I am."

"Don't buy it." Deadpool said, after a moments consideration. "Sure, I mean, as a motivation it'll do, but why this? Why this specifically?"

Slade tried a different tack. "You ever envy guys like Sabertooth?"

"Hey, don't get intimidated. You got plenty of sex appeal. And you're an inexplicably popular character, you'll be around a while yet."

Slade didn't preen, or perk up, like a normal person would. He simply filed that away, and then ignored it. Deadpool felt a little tension leave him. Slade obviously hadn't entirely lost himself. "Not that. He's just got this assurance, you know? He knows he'll always be here, that in twenty years everything will be the same. Part of me envies that."

"So will you. Nobody dies in this line of work but Jason Todd, Uncle Ben and Gwen Stacy. Two of them are back to stay, and people are probably planning Uncle Ben's triumphant return as well."

"What?"

"Nothing."

“You know, I was angry at first. This morning, I had to take the jeep and drive for thirty miles looking for something worth killing. I killed everything I came across. Animals, mostly. Another one of those Wendigos. Didn't do a thing for me. Then I took a deep breath, drove back, fixed myself a meal, and I got over it."

"Just like that?"

"Sure."

"How? You taken up yoga, or drink a lot of green tea or something?"

"Yes to the yoga, but that's not what I did. I just decided to start looking on the bright side. I didn't get to kill him, but I got to knock him around. And I just thought of something better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than killing Wolverine."

They sat in silence for a while.

"I'm not going to ask, so don't bother waiting. Whatever you've thought of is probably so horrible the only words that can describe it is 'equal to the Backstreet Boys'." Deadpool paused. "Which has awakened a certain horrified interest. Aright, tell me, but I reserve the right to seek spiritual absolution afterwards."

"X-23." Slade said.

Deadpool winced, but didn't say anything. This could not go to a good place.

"She's a good kid. And why not? Haven't had much luck, with my flesh and blood." Slade said, taking another drink. "Grant… You remember him as a boy. Broad as a cypress, sandy blond hair, and the jungle burning in his eyes. You know, he used to kill the neighbours pets. Well, you can probably guess, even if I never told you. He wouldn't torture them, if that counts for anything. Didn't even hide the evidence, it was like he wanted to be found out, to be confronted. I could never get him to put a stop to it. Who am I to, anyway? He followed my footsteps. Took to it. Too well, too soon. All at once. You know, they locked him in Arkham for a year, and he might as well have spent the time sleeping for all the place touched him, he walked right out unchanged. Shouldn't say it about my son, but maybe it's better he's dead."

Cold, man. "Yeah, you're right. That is a terrible thing to say about your son."

Slade didn't reply. "Jericho… soft. I let him grow up that way, so suppose it's my fault, but he is soft. He hasn't ever had a real reason to fight, something to put steel in his spine and full him up with piss and vinegar. He's just going through the motions, it's all he's ever done. Yet he won't try anything else either. He just lets himself be swept up.  He doesn't belong in this life, and yet he can't or won't leave it. But that's my fault, you spoil kids you get weak kids, but if you want strong kids, you treat them hard. And Rose…" He sighed. "Forget Rose."

"So you've let them all down?"

Slade failed to notice the reproving tone. That said it all, really. "I'm too old to settle down and start another #%&@ing family. Suppose I'll have to adopt."

"She'll be OK."

"Huh?"

"Rose. She's tough like you, beautiful like her mom, crazy like me. She got the best of all of us. And she added a few bits of her own too. She'll come good, sooner or later. Just you wait and see."

"Sure. What about me?" Slade said, looking up at him. "It doesn't mean anything, if there's no one to leave it to."

"You're serious." Deadpool said, aghast.

"Look at it my way: like I said, four tries and I've still never had anything much like luck with my own blood." He said, looking at the sunset. "Or just picking an apprentice - they either amount to nothing, or they break ranks. So what else?"

"What's this got to do with Wolverine?"

"Everything. I'll take his clone, X-23, and make her much better. It's the perfect revenge, don't you think? She can be my new apprentice. And I'll make her better than he ever was. Better than me, if I can wrangle it."

Slade took another swallow. "Get her around to my way of thinking - won't be too hard, and teach her everything I know. Soon, she'll be ready to pick up where I leave off. And when I pass on and it's all up to her, well every time he sees her, he'll see me looking back at him, until he dies. And he'll never die. How's that for revenge?"

Deadpool thought that had to be the most creepy thing he'd ever heard in his entire life. "You know, get a few beers in you and we switch roles. Suddenly you're doing all the talking." Deadpool said, taking another drink. "So why? Why do you hate him so much? Why's some weabo Canadian berserker worth so much of your time?"

"I don't hate him. Not particularly, anyway. It's just who I am."

"Right. And who are you?"

Slade got to his feet. ”I am a warrior, brother mine. Just like you are. It is in my blood, in my breathing. In my soul. Same as it is in yours. I am a proud and fearless breed. But that's all I am. I need to fight. I need to kill, to feel the ebb-and-flow of conflict and the thrill of the life-or-death struggle, because those things make me who I am. Without those things, I am still good, but I am not me. Without those things, I don't have a reason to exist." He bared his teeth. "For it all to be worth it, I need people who are worth it themselves."

"Alright, I should have cut you off two cans ago, you light-weight. You get weird when you drink, and become a dark person." Deadpool sighed.

"And I am the best." Slade continued, as though he hadn't been interrupted. "I cannot be better." He stood up then, and looked out at the horizon. "We're all the same, whoever we fight for - whatever the public calls us. Conflict gives meaning to our existence. We hunt, we strive and we fight, and not just for money, or because people need our protection. Not for a cause, and not for revenge. Those things are excuses, they drag us in, but they don't hold us. We do these things because we must. Without them, there is emptiness at the heart of our lives, a void that cannot be filled no matter how hard we try. We do not do well with peace. We bridle at the lack of activity. It makes us feel restless and uneasy. We need to feel danger. I don't hate Wolverine. Not really. I forgave him for what happened to you a long time ago. Wolverine is just an excuse. I don't need a cause. I just need a ready supply of enemies. I only take payment because it's easier then choosing them myself.”

He picked up another beer. “I don’t need a purpose. What I do is it’s own purpose.”

It was impressive, how he could be so unselfconsciously melodramatic, Deadpool thought. The sun was setting in the distance, over the lake, and Deadpool appreciated for the first time in he couldn't say how long how beautiful this place was. He was born here - sure, he'd been alive before he came here, but this place had turned him into his recognisable form, rebuilt him into who he was. Both of them. Who he was now, this place was the root of it. The thought made him feel small, but that didn't matter, the world was around him, so big and complex and he was a tiny part, but that didn't matter either, because it was so beautiful.

And there was a place where he fit, a place just for him, that nobody else could fill, just like there was for his brother, just like there was for everybody. The Wilsons might well have been the most dysfunctional family in the entirety of the cosmos. There were Greek Tragedies that had less problems then the Wilsons. But they were family, and Deadpool realised that he wasn't going through the motions. He realised he'd taken this job in the first place because Slade had asked him, not because he needed the money or attention or novelty. That really did mean something, even if it was just made up for the benefit of the audience it mattered to him. "You're wrong about me." He said at last. "I hope you're wrong about you too, though I won't count on it. You're probably wrong about most of us. Sweeping generalisations tend to be bullcrap, in my experience. But even if you are right about yourself, that's not all you are."

"Oh?"

"You're my brother. You've been there for me when it counts, you've always had my back. Much as I hate you sometimes - most of the time actually, that's always been something I've known I can count on. And I guess I got yours."

Slade smiled, and tossed the empty beer can into the reservoir. "We're a pretty good team, aren't we?"

"The best, brother. The best."

The sun set behind the mountains, and sitting there, looking up at the sky, it went dark, and the stars came out.

And the two mercenaries watched it together, brother and brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done with he first book! The next chapter will be a New York Fairytale, and star Peter Parker, everyones favourite friendly neighbourhood Spider-man!


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